


the thirteen days of christmas

by delafield



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Some suspension of disbelief required, This is fluff, because they're all incredibly wealthy and we're going to pretend that's not morally questionable, childhood best friends, will they develop deeper feelings? who can tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27820660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delafield/pseuds/delafield
Summary: On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...(Christen’s having a tough time. Tobin’s determined to make it a Christmas she'll never forget.)
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 130
Kudos: 386





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This concept comes from a lovely book called The Thirteen Days of Christmas by Jenny Overton, which I've read every December since before I could read. It might be out of print now but worth it if you can get your hands on it. 
> 
> Unusually for me, I've prepared this whole thing in advance, so settle in!

Tobin loves gift-giving. 

Obviously it doesn’t  _ hurt  _ that the Heaths are one of the wealthiest families in the state, but she’s not actually particularly extravagant in monetary terms. Every Christmas party like clockwork her mother still tells the story of how, aged nine, Tobin spent an entire year taking one photo per day of each family member and collaging the result in an album too stuffed full of memories it wouldn’t close properly. Tobin groans automatically now whenever she hears it, and usually tries to slope off to find a beer or a girl or both, but she can’t deny the sentiment. She’s always loved the excitement of planning the perfect gift for each person in her life. This year should be no different. But it is. 

It’s different, because this is the first year that Christen will be alone for Christmas.

Not  _ alone  _ alone, obviously. Tobin wouldn’t have that. She’s already made it very clear that her oldest friend will be spending the holiday with the Heaths, and Christen has agreed to do Christmas Eve and day-of but has refused to impose any further. No amount of pleading could change her mind. Tobin sometimes feels like she never quite manages to find the right words when it comes to Christen - pretty much never needed to, they’ve always understood each other so perfectly - and she can’t work out how to convince her best friend just how welcome she is to stay as long as she wants. 

As far as Tobin is concerned, she could stay forever. 

‘It’s family time.’

‘You  _ are  _ family.’

‘Tobin.’ And Christen had looked at her through the little Facetime window with a fond expression which didn’t quite sit right on her face, colored with something Tobin couldn’t diagnose with any certainty, but looked a little bit like wistfulness. ‘You know what I mean. And I would love to spend those two days with you. I just… this year will be so different anyway, and I think, one thing at a time, you know?’

Tobin felt the tears prick at the back of her own eyes; they’d been so close growing up that Christen’s parents had practically been her parents too. ‘Yeah, I get it. I’m sorry, Chris.’

‘You have nothing to be sorry about,’ said Christen, with some of the old certainty Tobin had so admired before the tragedies pushed her off-balance. ‘I love you, Tobs.’

‘I love you too, Chris.’ And oh, she does.

Photography takes Tobin all over the world, and she’s missed more than her fair share of family events, but she always makes up for it at Christmas. The fifteenth of December finds her on a plane home, no matter where she’s been. She’d been terrified this year that Christen wouldn’t be there when she got back; as sole heir to the family energy company, she’d been making vague noises about needing to spend more time in the city. But sure enough, an hour after Tobin gets through the door of the Heath mansion and half an hour after Cindy first notices her youngest daughter’s knee start to bounce with what the rest of the family privately dubs ‘Christen withdrawal’, the bell rings and Tobin’s chair skids with how fast she makes for the door. 

_ ‘Chris.’ _

‘I missed you so much.’

‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

‘I couldn’t be anywhere else.’ Christen finally pulls away from the hug and sits down on the porch bench to untie her boots, looking up at Tobin with what could only be described as a cheeky grin. ‘Did you see the news? Press Industries is going all in for green energy. I thought the branding would be better if I ran it out of a humble homestead in Shallow Lake than a skyscraper in Manhattan.’

_ ‘Humble homestead.  _ You have more pointless extra bathrooms than we do.’ Tobin pulls the door closed to keep the warm air inside the house and sits down next to Christen, pulling her sleeves down over her cold hands. ‘You mean it? You’re staying for good?’

‘I’m staying for good, not that you’ll benefit with all your jetsetting. Isn’t there anything interesting to photograph around here?’

Tobin grins, resolutely ignoring the way her stomach flips a little bit when Christen nudges her shoulder. ‘Are you volunteering?

‘You’ve got far too many embarrassing photos of me already.’

‘They’re all beautiful.’

‘Oh, stop.’

It’s peaceful on the porch. They both know that the second they open the door they’ll be engulfed by parents and dogs and siblings and ambushed for conversations and forced to help with the cooking, so they just sit for a while, breaths clouding and mingling in front of them. Christen shrugs an arm out of her jacket and unwinds her scarf and wordlessly crams them as far around Tobin as she can, while Tobin pulls her knees up to her chest to get closer. 

It feels so good just to sit together again.

‘I’ve really missed you, Chris. I think of you all the time.’

Christen nudges one abandoned boot incrementally with her toe, until they’re lined up together neatly to the side, and only then looks across tremulously at Tobin. ‘I’m really okay.’

‘I know you are, by normal person standards, but I get how hard it is.’

Sharing a jacket doesn’t give much room for manoeuvre, but Tobin manages to wedge her arm around Christen’s waist and Christen just about has space to lean her head against Tobin’s shoulder. Tobin is perfectly happy for the minute before she shivers too hard to hide how cold she is, and Christen pulls back. ‘You’re freezing. Your mom will kill me if I make you catch flu just when she’s got you home.’

‘Mom wouldn’t care. She’ll be way too happy to see that you’re back.’ 

‘Tobin, I saw your mom yesterday.’

‘She did?’ For real, it is  _ freaking  _ cold. Tobin hops up and down while Christen retrieves her bag. ‘She didn’t say anything.’ 

Christen gives a funny little grin. ‘I guess she wanted me to be a surprise.’

***

‘Mulling wiiiine. That’s what I like to see.’ Lindsey sniffs the air like a puppy and hugs Tobin so hard she nearly leaves the ground. ‘But I’ve missed you so much I would probably have come over even if you hadn’t been. Hey, Mrs Heath.’

‘Merry Christmas, Lindsey honey. When did you get home?’

‘Yesterday. Mom and dad send their best and said the Christmas cookie swap is on Sunday this year, but you’d be welcome to go over sooner and taste-test the contenders.’

‘That I certainly will. Tobs, I don’t think mulled wine is supposed to smell burnt.’

‘It’s  _ fine,  _ mom, it’s just steaming.’

‘That’s smoke, sweetie. Here, if you just turn the flame down, and - oh, that’s why. You’ve set a cinnamon stick on fire.’

Tobin abandons the ladle and throws her hands up dramatically. ‘I give up. I can’t work under these conditions. Will it poison us if Linds and I take some upstairs?’

They decide to risk it, and end up sitting on Tobin’s bed with warm, comforting mugfuls, a soccer game on in the background but neither really focusing on it. There’s a lot to catch up on: Tobin’s shoots, Lindsey’s puppy, their mutual struggle to learn French. New friends. Old friends. 

‘What are you getting Christen for Christmas?’

Tobin sighs and leans back against the headboard. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t  _ know?’  _ There’s genuine shock on Lindsey’s face. ‘Tobin, you start planning Christmas gifts in, like, September. Are you seriously telling me we’re one week out and you haven’t got her anything?’

‘She  _ has  _ everything. That’s the problem.’

‘If she’s back for good you should get her a dog,’ says Lindsey hopefully. ‘Oh, wait, she’s allergic to fur. Exotic fish?’

‘Fish are boring.’ 

‘Why don’t you paint her something? She’d love that.’

‘Yeah, I… I don’t know. I’ve done that before. I just want to be different this year.’ Tobin swallows and tries to hide it with a sip of mulled wine. ‘Make her some new memories, you know?’

Lindsey nods, eyes soft. ‘Yeah. I get that.’

‘I guess I just need to find something she’ll really remember. Think outside the box.’

Lindsey will remember this moment, later, and wonder if Tobin was ever really  _ aware _ of the box at all.


	2. first

_December 25th_

_The first day of Christmas_

Christen knows from years of boarding school and lazy vacations that Tobin does not wake easily, but it makes sense that Christmas would be the exception.

The Heaths have more than enough spare rooms, but somehow it never occurred to anyone that Christen should use one. Instead, she and Tobin ended up in Tobin’s childhood bed, which is more than big enough for both of them, or would be if Tobin - Christen tells herself - wasn’t such a needy sleeper. Somehow they always end up curled around each other at the very edge of the mattress, or practically on top of each other in the middle. It’s habit, and Christen never used to think anything of it, but more recently she’s found it harder to ignore the way her stomach churns when Tobin’s hand finds its way around her waist, or how uncomplicatedly peaceful it is to wake up with her chin pressed into Tobin’s shoulder. 

But she’s the only one in the bed now, and the space beside her is cold. She remembers what day it is, and the grief is just about to hit her when the door opens and Tobin pads in, barefoot, balancing a tray precariously in her free hand.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she whispers. 

‘Don’t tell me Tobin night-owl Heath is the first person awake.’

‘No, but Tobin most-wonderful-time-of-the-year Heath is. Budge.’ 

Christen groans and grabs defensively at the comforter. ‘I was cozy. You’re letting in all the cold air.’ 

‘Oh shush. I’ve brought peppermint hot chocolate and toast with maple butter, and my feet are freezing.’ Tobin climbs in next to Christen, so close it can only be described as snuggling, beautifully warm and smelling of crumbs. She sticks her icy feet right on Christen’s bare calf to prove her point and Christen yelps so violently she almost upsets the tray. ‘We’ll eat proper breakfast when the others are up, this is just to tide us over.’

‘I will never understand how you can eat so much food,’ begins Christen absently, but then she breathes in a cloud of minty, chocolatey steam and leans back luxuriously against the headboard. For a moment, she is blissfully happy. 

‘Um, Chris?’

‘Yeah?’

Tobin shifts against her, hip to hip, and straightens up a little bit. ‘You’d tell me, right? If there was anything you wanted?’

‘Anything I _wanted?’_ Christen feels her stomach bottom out. She can’t tell if that really is an invitation, an offer, or if it just maybe sounds like one, or if she just _wants_ it to be. ‘Like what?’

‘I’ve told everyone to keep it chill, so we’ll probably just do breakfast and church and presents, and then we all help with the cooking, and we might watch a movie later before we go to Kelley’s. And maybe go for a walk after church if it’s sunny out. But I know everyone does Christmas differently, and I guess I’m trying to say that I don’t want you to feel like a guest.’ Tobin’s fingers are wrapped around her mug, one of her standard strategies when she’s trying to keep her hands still, but her knuckles are white. She visibly really wants to get this right. ‘If there’s anything that you would normally do today, or anything you’d make to eat or drink, or any, I don’t know, traditions, promise you’ll tell me? We’ll make it happen.’

Christen nods, heart full, and feels the corner of her mouth quiver. ‘I miss them.’

‘I know,’ says Tobin quietly. ‘And I get that today might be hard because of that, but I want you to have fun. So anything you want, you just ask. Promise?’

‘Promise.’

Tobin squeezes her hand, and they sit there in silence until Christen’s throat stops aching. She finally manages a smile as she steals the second-last bite of Tobin’s toast. ‘I have to say, this is a pretty good start.’

‘Heaths are excellent celebrators. You know that.’

‘True.’ Christen could barely remember a Christmas when they hadn’t spent part of the day in and out of each other’s houses. ‘Remember how I spent that one Christmas in Scotland because Dad had to go look at the North Sea rigs, and I woke you up at four a.m. phoning you from the hotel?’

‘I told you to.’ 

‘I know, but I still felt bad. You sounded so sleepy.’ To this day, Christen isn’t 100% sure that Tobin had actually been awake on that phone call, but it had meant a lot to hear her voice all the same. ‘I have such good memories of that year. I missed you a ton, but it was nice having my parents to myself. I still feel all warm and fuzzy whenever I hear bagpipes.’

‘Is that why you couldn’t stop laughing when we watched _Braveheart?’_

‘That was mostly because of the appalling historical inaccuracies, but it didn’t help.’

Tobin grins and leans across Christen - _all the way across her,_ pretty much lying in her lap, and Christen’s heart possibly stops beating entirely. She’s just looking for a photo book from the little set of shelves on the far side of the bed, and navigates her way neatly to the correct page. ‘Here.’

Sixteen-year-old Christen in a giant coat and tartan scarf, her parents on either side, all three of them beaming in front of Edinburgh Castle. Christen laughs - can’t help it. ‘You kept it!’

‘Of course.’

Christen flips through the rest of the pages. ‘What year is this album? Have you got the one of you covered in mud after that girl tackled you off the pitch?’

‘This one isn’t any particular year. This one is just you.’

Sure enough, they’re all photos of her, or the two of them together, different years and occasions all mixed up together. She stops and runs a fingertip down a newspaper clipping tucked in beside one of the pictures: her and her mom, a few years ago now, all dressed up at some charity gala. ‘You know, this was the last thing I did with my mom. Not this exact event, but at this theater. We went to _Swan Lake,_ just a couple days before the accident.’

She can’t bear to look at Tobin because she knows just how soft her eyes will be. ‘And did you have fun?’ 

‘So much. It was perfect.’ 

Tobin slings an arm around her and kisses her temple. ‘I’m so glad, Chris’

The house is starting to wake up around them. Christen knows this family well enough to identify the unmistakable sound of Tobin’s brother skidding down the stairs, or her elder sisters calling to each other through their shared wall. She’s excited to be part of a family day for the first time in months, but there’s sadness too, and it means the world that Tobin knows that. She can’t imagine doing this beside anyone else. 

‘You can have first shower,’ offers Tobin, collecting the empty mugs and stacking them on the tray. ‘I’ll start the coffee.’ 

Christen does smile up at her then. ‘Sounds perfect.’

Breakfast is loud and chaotic, in the best way, and church is nice; Christen might not be formally religious but she appreciates spirituality, and it’s lovely to see everyone so joyful. The walk back to the house is cold. Christen finds herself thinking wistfully of more coffee, hot chocolate, warm socks, and has to suppress a whine when Tobin drags her aside as they approach the porch. 

‘It won’t take a second. I just want to show you your present.’

‘Out here?’ 

‘Yes.’ Tobin holds out a hand and Christen takes it unhesitatingly. 

There’s a bright bundle of wrapping paper on the ground. Christen is about to step forward when she hears the parcel very definitely rustle. ‘Is it...alive?’

‘Yeah. That’s why I didn’t wrap it too tight.’

Christen hesitatingly takes hold of a trailing piece of red ribbon, and pulls. The paper falls away to reveal a glossy-leaved green tree in a glazed red pot, and a fat brown bird perched on one of the branches. 

‘Oh my goodness!’

Tobin steps forward tentatively. ‘Is that, a _good_ oh my goodness?’

‘Yes! I’m just surprised. Um - what is it?’

‘It’s a partridge. And a miniature pear tree. I just thought, since you’re back for good and have so much space, and - and I just wanted to get you something you didn’t have. Something you’d remember. We used some tame partridges on a shoot a few months ago and they’re very friendly. A photoshoot, obviously. Not a shoot where they, er, kill birds.’ She looks so hesitant Christen wants to hug her. ‘If it’s stupid you can say so. You know you can. I know it’s kind of off the wall and I won’t be offended.’

Christen kneels beside the little tree. The partridge clucks at her gently, its eyes bright. She must have found herself unexpectedly on the verge of tears a thousand times over the last few months, but this doesn’t compare; not when she suddenly feels like she’s bubbling over instead of hollowing out. 

‘Thank you, Tobin. I’ll never forget this.’

***

Only the O’Haras could get away with holding a Christmas party actually _on_ Christmas Day. It’s some kind of combination of being the oldest family in Shallow Lake, with a location that’s pretty much equally convenient to drop into from anywhere in town, and the fact that the daughter of the house is a compulsive socializer. 

‘Okay, ladies,’ says Kelley as soon as she deems the gang to all be here, ‘I made the punch myself and will be personally offended if there’s any left at the end of the night. Crystal, you’re on Tobin-and-Christen duty.’ 

‘What does that mean?’

‘Making sure they actually separate long enough for the rest of us to talk to them.’

‘How is that my job??’

‘Because of all our friends you’re the most balanced combination of sensible and fun.’

‘Oh boy,’ deadpans Crystal as she takes a serving of punch, ‘what a compliment.’

In the end, no Tobin-and-Christen separation is necessary: they’re on good form, Christen happier and quicker to smile than they’d all secretly feared. Crystal helps herself to more punch, dances with her friends, shares in the gossip and memories that always flood out when they all get together these days.

‘Pressi said Tobin got her a _bird?_ Like, a live one?’

‘She wasn’t going to give her a dead one, was she?’

But after a while, she notices that even when Tobin and Christen are on opposite sides of the room, _separate_ isn’t exactly the right word. Tobin’s body is somehow always angled towards Christen, wherever she is, like she’s ready to spring to her side at any moment, and Christen’s eyes reliably dart across whenever she hears Tobin laugh. The two have been joined at the hip all the way through school and college and whenever they’re home, and this is almost more of the same, but not quite. It’s almost best-friend behavior, but not quite. It’s almost protecting-a-bereaved-loved-one behavior, but not quite. Crystal is so intrigued she forgets to drink her third cup of punch until Kelley yells at her.

She thinks she might get answers when Tobin sidles up to her, looking unusually sheepish. ‘Um. Do you have a minute?’

‘Anything for my girl. What’s up?’

Tobin slips her hand through the crook of Crystal’s arm and steers her into a corner, hidden from the others by an extravagant stack of profiteroles. ‘So, I may have made a tiny error with the partridge thing.’

‘Tobs, she loved it. I mean, I think you’re out of your mind, but Pressi thought it was adorable. She can’t stop talking about it.’

‘Right. And that’s awesome, honestly. It’s just, it turns out that when I was ordering it online, I actually didn’t just buy one partridge. Or one pear tree.’

Crystal closes her eyes, wondering if the sudden tension behind her eyes is a headache or a hangover. ‘How many did you buy, Tobin?’

‘Twelve.’

_‘Twelve?’_

‘I know, I know. I think I was entering the order quantity and I added a 2 by accident.’

‘Did it not strike you as odd that you were paying, like, fifteen hundred dollars for a bird and a really small tree?’ Tobin’s blush is visible even in the mood lighting. ‘Oh my god, the size of your trust fund is literally embarrassing. What are you gonna do?’

Tobin traces a pattern on the floor with her toe. ‘I thought I might just… give her the rest of them.’

Somewhere on the other side of the profiteroles, Kelley gives a drunken whoop and tries to establish a conga line. Crystal puts her hands on Tobin’s shoulders and looks her very seriously in the eye. ‘I’m sorry, perhaps I misheard you over Kelley doing her best to get thrown out of her own house. I thought you just said you were going to give Christen Press an additional _eleven partridges and eleven pear trees._ Like, deliberately.’

‘She liked the first one!’

‘Yes, Tobito. The first _one._ What’s she going to do with the others?!’

‘She could plant the trees in the walled garden. And the partridges can just live together in a coop, like your chickens. In fact, it’s probably better that way. I bet this one would get lonely if he was by himself.’ Tobin’s eyes have lit up dangerously. Crystal recognizes that look. ‘She probably won’t even notice, anyway. I got her a couple other things as well.’

Crystal is about to ask what exactly that’s supposed to mean, and then decides it may be better not to know.


	3. second

_ 26th December  _

_ The second day of Christmas  _

When the doorbell rings on 26th December, Christen considers not answering. Yesterday had been so perfect that she kind of wants to keep the outside world away for as long as possible, as though she can preserve that safe, happy feeling for just as long as she isn’t interrupted. But it’s not really in her to ignore people, so after a second she gets up and opens the door.

It’s Tobin, and Christen’s stomach flips so hard with relief it slightly worries her. 

‘Happy second day of Christmas.’

‘You’re a goof.’ Christen feels her cheeks smile before her brain realizes they’re doing it. The tip of Tobin’s nose is red with cold, despite the giant oatmeal-colored scarf swathed around her neck and most of her torso, and she looks so adorable it takes Christen a second to notice the brightly-wrapped box behind her. ‘Did you get me  _ another  _ present?’

‘Maybe. Also hot chocolate, the good kind, and before you ask, yes I brought the necessary fixings.’ Tobin hands her a thermos flask, a candy cane, and a packet of giant marshmallows. ‘Um - you should probably open it out here. The present.’

‘Tobin, it’s like  _ minus  _ degrees.’

‘That’s why I brought the hot chocolate, so your hands don’t freeze. Drinking it is just a bonus.’ Tobin stands aside and gestures almost shyly. ‘Sooner you open it, the sooner we can head inside.’

Christen lifts the wrapping away carefully, and there’s a moment of deja-vu as she sees another pear tree, this time in a bright yellow pot, and another partridge - but this time there are two extra birds, heads together, cooing as they come back into the light. 

‘They’re turtle doves. Do you remember -’

‘Oh my god, of course I remember! How old were we, six?’

‘I think you might even have been five.’

Christen’s heart lifts, the way it always does when she thinks of that memory: her first week of Sunday school in the big airy room behind the local church, her mom ushering her into a chair beside a little girl with the prettiest smile she’d ever seen. 

There had been big pots of coloring pencils all over the tables, which even then Tobin’s six-year-old fingers had visibly itched to pick up, and the teacher had written out a quote for them to illustrate. Song of Solomon 2:12,  _ The flowers appear in the earth: the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.  _ The teacher had explained patiently that  _ ‘the turtle’  _ meant not a turtle with a shell which swam, but a turtle  _ dove,  _ a kind of bird famed for its beautiful singing, but it had been too late: Christen and Tobin were already bonding over coming up with increasingly outrageous - and loud - guesses about what  _ the voice of the turtle  _ would sound like, until the teacher made them take five outside the door. Christen quit Sunday school after that, Tobin stayed, but their friendship was set from that moment. 

‘I’m not gonna lie, I still don’t know what it was about that display that made you think _yes, that’s_ _the kind of person I want to accompany me on life’s never-ending ascension.’_

‘What can I say, I just really liked the sounds you made.’ 

Tobin raises an eyebrow. Christen realizes how that might have sounded and blushes hard enough to fry an egg.

They sort out the birds and Christen manages to persuade Tobin inside to warm up, but it’s a beautiful day and she doesn’t resist too hard when Tobin persuades her in turn to come for a walk around the lake. The air is sharp and clear, winter at its wintriest, and the sky is the exact blue of Tobin’s coat.

‘Did you enjoy yourself yesterday?’ asks Tobin, after ten minutes of pottering silently along the shore collecting interesting pebbles.

‘You know I did.’

‘I know you said so, but you might just have been being polite.’

‘I’m not that good a liar.’

‘But you  _ are  _ that good a guest.’

Christen pokes her tongue out primly. ‘I don’t feel like I’m a guest when I’m with you. You’re far too annoying.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Tobin reaches for Christen’s gloved hand and drops something in it: a piece of glass, exactly the blue-green of Christen’s eyes, edges smoothed away by the water. ‘Found it.’

‘Found what?’

‘The perfectest pebble. We can go home now.’

‘That’s not a pebble.’

‘Oh. I’d better take it back then.’

Christen just smiles and pockets it, swatting Tobin’s hand away. They both know it’ll end up on the windowsill of Christen’s bathroom, together with the driftwood Tobin brought home from Melbourne and the old perfume bottle she’d saved from a rubbish heap in Algiers, just like the wall above Tobin’s dresser is patchworked all over with clippings and quotes that Christen saves for her. Tobin shoves her gently before stuffing her cold hands back in her own pockets, and they keep walking.

Over the last few months in particular, Christen has realized that being with her best friend gives her the space - maybe even the only space - where she can just  _ be.  _ Tobin isn’t much of a talker at the best of times, preferring a hug or a squeeze of the hand or a kind gesture, but she’s the only person left who Christen can really be quiet with: no small talk, no party manners, no well-meaning condolences Christen doesn’t have answers to. She needs it, especially after all the excitement of Christmas Day.

They reach the little cove where Christen’s dad taught them to skip stones, and wordlessly they both stoop to look for suitable candidates. Christen finds some perfect flat ones and holds a couple out to Tobin, whose hands aren’t quite blue with cold, but getting there. ‘Where are your gloves?!’

Tobin flexes her fingers and grimaces. ‘I think I took them off while I was moving the pear tree.’

‘I’ll lend you some to wear home.’ It’s not like they don’t reliably swap clothes anyway. ‘Thank you for that, by the way, and the other partridge. They can be friends, like Crystal’s chickens.’

‘Do chickens have friends?’ Tobin skips her stone perfectly. She always does. 

‘That’s what I love about them. Their little personalities. I always visit them when I go see Crystal.’ Christen shields her eyes against the dazzle from the lake and looks back at the house, perched above its pristine slope of green lawn. ‘I was thinking of getting some, actually. I love the idea of hunting for eggs. I feel like this could be a new start for me, and I’d like to be more… connected to the land, I guess. More sustainable.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Well, is it crazy?’

‘Not even a little bit.’ Tobin shakes her head and sidles over, sneaking her frozen hands into Christen’s warm coat pockets. ‘I think it makes a lot of sense.’ 

‘Good,’ is all Christen manages, because Tobin is so, so close to her and it’s like her entire brain has skidded to a halt. She can’t think of anything except how long Tobin’s eyelashes are, and how golden her eyes are in the sun, and how her lips are so chapped that Christen really, really wants to reach out and -

_ ‘There  _ you are!’

They both swing round like they’ve been scalded. Kelly is rounding the spur with Lindsey at her heels, whooping as she waves. ‘Mama Heath sent us to round you up for Movie-And-Leftovers Afternoon. We saw you from the house, not that you had to make us trek all the way out here, thank you  _ very  _ much.’ 

‘Nobody asked you to,’ mutters Tobin, at exactly the same moment Christen snaps that it will help them work off the Christmas turkey.


	4. third

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is very not like anything I've tried writing before so I hope it's okay. it should be 15-20k in total so I promise it'll turn out substantial!
> 
> hope you're all enjoying your december - chin up everyone :)

_ 27th December  _

_ The third day of Christmas  _

**You (09.53): are you free today? lunchtimeish?**

**crystal dunn (09.53): how many times have i told you to lead with the activity so i know whether i need to pretend to be busy?**

**crystal dunn (09.54): i haven’t forgotten the rock climbing**

**You (09.55): you enjoyed the rock climbing!**

**crystal dunn (09.55): p sure i said it was the one physical activity i will never do again**

**You (10.01): so are you free**

**crystal dunn (10.02): HAVE YOU LITERALLY LISTENED TO NOTHING I JUST SAID**

Tobin rolls her eyes and presses the call button. Crystal answers on the first ring. ‘Hey girl.’

‘We were texting.’

‘Heath, somebody better have spiked your morning coffee because you are making no sense right now.’

‘We were  _ texting.  _ How was I supposed to  _ listen  _ to what you just said?’

‘I’m hanging up.’

‘No, wait.’ Tobin hesitates, picking at her thumbnail. ‘I need your help.’

There’s a pause. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘I hope so.’ 

‘Let’s hear it then.’

Tobin’s alone in the house, her parents at the O’Haras’ for morning coffee and her siblings off somewhere with their own friends. She leans on the kitchen counter absently and starts to build a tower with the bowl of pinecones her mom collects religiously every fall. ‘Chris said yesterday that she was thinking of keeping chickens.’

‘Yeah, we’ve talked about it. She even asked me for the name of the carpenter who built my coops.’

‘Mm. Okay. That’s good.’

‘Yeeeees?’

‘I may have bought her some.’

‘Some...chickens?’

‘No, some carpenters. Yes some chickens.’

‘Tobin,’ sighs Crystal, ‘do you know what you’re doing?’

‘Yes?’ The pinecone tower jitters and collapses. ‘I mean, no, not exactly, but I asked Mrs Harvey from the farm on the Woodsville road and she helped me out. Told me what to buy and linked me up with the supplier.’

‘The Harveys are dairy farmers. Are you sure you haven’t accidentally bought cows? Big, love grass, moo a lot?’

‘They’re dairy farmers _ now  _ but Mrs Harvey comes from a poultry dynasty, which is a thing, and she recommended this special kind of hen. From France. Apparently they lay tons of eggs.’

‘Show me a picture.’ Tobin sends one. ‘Oh my god, are they Houdans?’

‘Yes?’

‘You don’t sound sure.’ Crystal takes a deep breath. Tobin can just imagine her putting on a calm, kindly, soothing expression. ‘Tobin.’

‘Crystal dear.’

‘You know what I’m going to ask.’

Tobin sighs. ‘I bought thirty. But they were  _ literally _ cheaper by the dozen, I got a massive discount for buying them all. And they all have names, and it seemed cruel to separate -’

‘Your family is on the Rich List! You do not need a chicken discount!’

‘You know as well as I do that looking out for discounts is how you  _ get _ on the Rich List.’

‘You’re nuts,’ says Crystal firmly, ‘and if you were going to ask me to come with you to deliver them, hell yes. I am not missing the look on Pressi’s face when she opens the door and walks out into a farmyard.’

***

But Christen is  _ delighted.  _

‘How did you do this? I only mentioned it yesterday.’

‘She flashed her Amex black card,’ mumbles Crystal, but it’s lost in the sheer elation of Tobin beaming at them. Crystal knows from literally twenty years of experience that no one - parents, teachers, Christen,  _ especially  _ Christen - is immune to that smile. 

They both gloss over the fact that the chicken delivery also included another partridge and another pair of turtle doves. 

Tobin (or, more likely, Mrs Harvey) really has thought of almost everything, but Crystal does notice a couple of chicken mom essentials which are missing. She expects Tobin to nod attentively and order a delivery, but instead she’s already scrolling through her phone for pet stores. ‘Look, there’s one open today, and they definitely sell… well, bird things. Crystal, will you come with? You’re the expert.’

Tobin drives, whistling along to the carols on the radio. It’s quiet, with most of the shops yet to reopen after the holiday, but the Christmas lights are up and it’s hard not to get caught up in the feeling that things are still special even though Christmas itself is technically over. That is one of the fun things about having Tobin as a friend; maybe it’s the photographer in her, but she’s always been good at treating the everyday as extraordinary.

That said -

‘It looks kind of sketchy,’ says Tobin doubtfully as she pulls into the pet store parking lot.

Crystal can’t disagree, but they’re here now so she just nods briskly. ‘I’m sure it’s fine. We only need a couple things anyway. We’ll be in and out.’

One thing is certain: it does specialize in birds. The walls are lined with them, cage after cage: orioles, sparrows, goldfinches, bluebirds, wrens. They look miserable, and none of them are singing, and Crystal can see Tobin’s shoulders hunching.

‘This won’t take a second,’ she says reassuringly, patting Tobin’s arm and leaving her at the door of the shop. 

Tobin lingers there unhappily while Crystal finds the stuff and pays, and follows her out when they’re done, but stops short after just a few paces. ‘Wait up a sec.’

Crystal blinks as Tobin runs back inside the shop, then goes to lean against the car and waits. A minute passes, then two, then five, until Tobin comes out again, looking faintly guilty. 

‘What did you do?’

‘I couldn’t just leave them there.’

In hindsight, this is an absolutely predictable turn of events. Crystal closes her eyes. ‘How many were there?’

‘I don’t know. Like, thirty?’

‘You bought thirty birds. Thirty  _ new  _ birds. Thirty new birds in addition to the twelve partridges, the twenty-four turtle doves and the thirty chickens.’ Tobin mumbles something. ‘Come again?’

‘It  _ might  _ be thirty-six. New birds. I think.’

_ ‘Tobin Powell Heath.’ _

‘They looked so sad! They shouldn’t be in cages. And Chris can just set them free, and there’ll be so much birdsong when she wakes up at the crack of dawn to do her sun salutations.’

Tobin looks so earnest that Crystal finds herself melting, just a bit. ‘Tobs, you know Christen is - I mean, she’s not  _ okay, _ obviously, but you’ve helped her already, I can tell. She’s really grateful for everything you’ve done. You don’t need to feel like you have to keep…’ 

‘Keep what?’

‘This. Whatever this is. Doing whatever you’re doing.’

Tobin bites her lip, poised on the balls of her feet, looking for a moment like she might change her mind; but then she smiles brightly instead. ‘It’s okay. She’ll be so busy hunting for eggs she won’t even notice.’


	5. fourth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have said earlier, if anyone has spotted cues for later gifts/chapters, I'll be delighted and very impressed 👏
> 
> hope you're all having a lovely December!

_ 28th December  _

_ The fourth day of Christmas  _

The chickens have other ideas. 

‘Not a single egg,’ mourns Christen, when Tobin calls her at random to complain about something one of her publishers has done. ‘Do you think they’re unhappy?’

_ God, I hope not,  _ prays Tobin, because said chickens have been furnished with everything they could possibly desire and she is not a mind-reader.

‘I’m sure they’re okay,’ she says with zero certainty. ‘You could check again later. Maybe they lay in the evenings.’

‘Do they do that?’

‘Yes?’

‘Is that a guess?’

‘...No?’

‘You’re useless,’ says Christen severely, but her voice is fond. ‘I’ll ask Crystal. She’ll know.’

  
  


***

‘I told her they’ll settle,’ says Crystal soothingly. 

This is probably what Tobin loves best about the holidays, after the gift-giving: all her best friends back in town, dogpiling in each other’s childhood bedrooms like nothing has changed. ‘But what if they don’t?’

‘They will.’

‘But what if they  _ don’t?’ _

_ ‘Ugh -’ _

Lindsey cuts in helpfully. ‘What other birds lay eggs?’

‘I’m pretty sure they all do? Isn’t that what makes them birds?’

‘Quails,’ says Alex promptly, visibly thinking back to cotillion. ‘They lay those tiny little eggs that Mrs Schoonmaker does devilled as appetizers.’

‘Mrs Schoonmaker’s  _ chef.’ _

‘Ostriches,’ are the first thing to come to Tobin’s mind - eggs as big as soccer balls - but Crystal rears up aggressively from her position on the bed. ‘No. Categorically no. You are  _ not  _ buying Christen an ostrich.’ 

‘But -’

‘Nuh-uh. Not even one. This is a zero ostrich importation zone.’

‘What about those partridges?’ suggests Kelley. ‘You must have enough for a little battery farm by now.’

‘They’re all boys,’ says Tobin gloomily. ‘Better plumage.’

‘Ducks.’ Becky stares at the ceiling. ‘Turkeys. Guineafowl. Emus. Swans. Geese. How long have you got?’

‘I think that’s long enough.’ Tobin drums her fingers on the back of her phone. ‘Yeah. Hmm. Okay.’

‘I see those wheels turning,’ says Kelley, batting the back of Tobin’s head fondly. ‘Where is Press, anyway? Don’t tell me you didn’t invite her just so you could ask us a question you could have googled.’

‘And there was I thinking you were happy to see me.’

‘Seriously, Heath.’

Tobin sighs. ‘She’s working. Said she has a lot to catch up on from the holiday break.’

‘Doesn’t a CEO have people for that?’ 

‘You know what she’s like.’

‘Yeah.’

There’s a pause, but Tobin can feel the others exchanging glances. It’s been hard for everyone, working out how to  _ be  _ around this new Christen, trying to guess what she needs without having to ask. It’s impossible to get it right all the time, but no one wants to push too far.

Lindsey nudges her, breaking the silence. ‘And you really think buying her an ostrich will take her mind off the whole inheriting-a-company thing?’

‘I’m not gonna buy her an ostrich,’ says Tobin absently, drowned out by Crystal’s ‘She is  _ not  _ going to buy her an ostrich!’

But she might possibly buy her something else.

***

Tobin and Christen’s lives have been entwined ever since that first meeting in Sunday school aged six. Tobin’s parents - like Christen’s, once upon a time - see Christen as another daughter, never so much as batting an eyelid when they see her in their kitchen or bump into her in the hallway. They live close enough that they’ve always dropped in and out at random, never worrying whether it’s necessary or convenient, in a way that more recently Tobin has noticed herself hesitating over. She knows that grief hits everyone differently and she’s so aware that Christen’s needs have changed, how the way they behaved six months ago might be too much for her now.

Just lately, something - and, when Tobin is being honest with herself, she knows it isn’t just the bereavement - is making her second-guess how they’re supposed to be around each other. 

She knows, from literally years of experience, that Christen won’t even think about food until she’s finished her work. By the same logic, she’s, like,  _ ninety-five  _ percent certain that she’ll be welcomed with open arms if she arrives with unsolicited takeout. But even though it’s just between the two of them, or maybe because of that, she ducks out of the Thai restaurant anyway after placing their usual order and presses the call button. 

‘Hey.’

Christen sounds perfectly normal, not even stressed, and Tobin wonders why she worried. ‘Hey. How are you doing?’ 

‘Oh - I mean, whatever. Lots of stupid stuff I have to read and sign off. Kind of boring really.’ Her tone is light, but she does sound tired. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Have you eaten?’ 

‘Not since -’ Tobin imagines her looking down at her watch ‘- one-fifteen. I’m starving.’ 

It’s eight pm. Tobin had leftover roast potatoes at three and a mince pie at five, and she still feels decidedly hollow. ‘Chris, you need to feed yourself better. Um - want me to pick up some dinner?’

Christen practically moans at the thought. Tobin’s stomach turns over, for reasons she doesn’t care to examine too closely. ‘God, yes please.’

‘What kind?’ 

‘Thai, please. Extra spring rolls and -’ 

‘- peanut sauce. Yes ma’am.’ Well, that’s a relief. ‘Coming right up.’

Her order is ready thirty seconds later, but hopefully Christen will be too zoned out with work to notice when said Thai food arrives twenty minutes ahead of schedule. 

She is, just sighing in relief when she sees Tobin on the doorstep. ‘My hero.’

‘Can I come in?’ 

‘Tobs.’ Christen smiles, looking genuinely baffled. ‘Of course you can.’

‘I just know you don’t want a lot of fuss for your birthday, and I’ve got a couple things for you, but I can leave them -’

‘Tobin.’ Christen takes her by both hands and pulls her inside. ‘When I said I didn’t want fuss, I just meant I didn’t want to be crowded. You know, Kelley persuading everyone to do shots, and Crystal and Rose turning everything into a dancefloor, and everyone trying desperately to pretend nothing’s happened. But I never meant I don’t want  _ you.’  _

Something uncurls in Tobin’s chest. ‘I don’t want to presume.’

Christen frowns. ‘What’s brought this on?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ says Tobin truthfully. All she knows is that looking at Christen recently has felt almost overwhelming, like being poised at the top of a rollercoaster, and she doesn’t yet know what to do with that information. 

Christen puts on a movie they’ve both seen before and they eat on the couch, casually stealing each other’s food like they always do. Tobin knows how hard it’s been for Christen to adjust to living in that huge house by herself, and it feels like she’s been creating spaces that are easier to cope with: the study, the bedroom, the little bubble between couch and coffee table and TV. That might be why it feels a little bit like Christen is leaning into her, sitting closer than she needs to. Seeking reassurance. 

As if she’s read her mind, Christen looks up at her seriously. ‘Will you stay over tonight? Please?’

‘Yeah, Chris. I’d love to.’

And Christen’s smile is warm and bright and  _ thrilling.  _

The movie ends without either of them noticing. Christen sits up and stretches with a groan. ‘Ow. I think working is bad for my back. You okay for a while if I jump in the shower?’

‘Go for it. I should answer some emails anyway.’

Christen brushes past her as she stacks the takeout containers. ‘Arranging to go somewhere else exciting?’

‘Just arranging to get paid, unfortunately.’ Tobin grins at her, waiting until she hears Christen’s bathroom door close before she dives for her phone and dials her sister.

‘Did they arrive?’

‘Oh, they arrived all right. Tobs, I don’t remember dropping you on your head as a child, but I’m really sorry if I did.’

‘Very funny ha ha. Could you drive them over here? Right now? Chris is in the shower.’

‘Does it really need to be this cloak and dagger? Believe me when I say it’ll be a surprise whatever happens.’

‘Katie, please.’

‘You owe me so big for this.’

The trailer pulls up five minutes later, the cages of songbirds stacked on the back. Tobin puts the front door on the latch and hops up and down to stay warm as Katie parks. The window of Christen’s ensuite is still lit up, and if Christen was going to hear anything it would have been the engine, but they both still instinctively speak in whispers. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

‘I hung the bird-feeders on the trees while you were on your way, so we just...let them out, I guess.’

‘What if they all just fly away?’

‘I mean, they might, but that’s what keeps it exciting.  _ And  _ why I didn’t want Chris to know in advance.’

‘I really enjoy how your brain works,’ sighs Katie. ‘Okay. Here goes nothing.’

The birds are cautious at first, perching on the little wire door-rims as the sisters open the cages, but then a wren flutters away and the others follow. Their wings rustle in the dark, and the night feels alive, suddenly, like a breath has been let out.

‘I will admit,’ whispers Katie, ‘this will be pretty great if it works.’

Tobin slips her arms around her sister’s waist and hugs her, side-on. ‘Thank you, Kay.’

‘Any time, Toby.’

Tobin watches the lights disappear down the drive, smiles as she hears the shower shut off, and slips back inside.


	6. fifth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all together now: 🎶 fiiive gooold riiings... 🎶
> 
> enjoy!

_ 29th December  _

_ The fifth day of Christmas  _

Christen wakes on her birthday to the sound of birds singing on her windowsill. 

She’s warm and cozy, and snuggles further into her pillow secure in the knowledge that the winter sun is shining outside and the light will flood in the second she opens the curtains. And, more importantly, because Tobin is lying next to her and she looks so comfortable Christen can’t bear to wake her up. Her hair smells of the same drugstore shampoo she’s used since she was ten, and it’s familiar in a way that Christen feels deep in her bones.

She’s almost dozing off again when Tobin shifts and uncurls and rolls over, blinking at her happily. ‘You’re awake.’

‘I can’t believe that after all this time, you’re still surprised when I wake up before you.’

‘One of these days, Ms Press, I promise I’ll astonish you.’ 

Tobin reaches down beside the bed and rolls back onto her stomach, propped up on her elbows. Still half asleep, Christen suddenly finds her eyeline full of the dip of Tobin’s collarbones and the hollow at the base of her throat, the delicate line of her neck - 

‘Chris.’

‘Mm?’

She’s so busy staring that she’s completely missed the white cardboard box in Tobin’s hands, the lid open to reveal a little cake. Not a cupcake, but a proper layer cake in miniature, perfectly iced:  _ Happy Birthday Christen.  _

‘It’s lovely,’ she bursts out, then hesitates. ‘Um - you didn’t make this yourself, did you?’

Tobin smirks. ‘If I said yes, would you still eat it? Since I’d worked so hard?’ 

‘I’d quite like to make it to twenty-five, so no.’

‘Harsh, but fair. Don’t worry, this is a Mama Heath special. You’re safe.’ Tobin kisses her cheek affectionately - Christen wonders if she’s imagining the way her lips linger just a tiny bit - and rolls out of bed. ‘I’ll start some coffee.’

It’s a perfect lazy morning. Christen takes charge of breakfast - ‘But it’s your  _ birthday,  _ Chris’ - because Tobin has a stellar track record for burning pancakes, and there are frost patterns on the French windows that make her hug herself a little tighter to be indoors. It’s quiet - neither of them are particularly talkative in the mornings - but the birds are still there, perched on the garden furniture, singing away. Christen counts a family of wrens and a couple of sparrows, a thrush, and what she thinks might be an oriole.

‘Did you drop any food outside when you came over last night?’

‘Don’t think so, why?’

‘I don’t remember there being so many birds in the garden before.’

Tobin makes a non-committal sound and suddenly seems very interested in her coffee.

Christen had agreed to go to the Heaths for festive birthday lunch, which had seemed like a nice idea at the time but she now resents immensely that it means they have to get dressed. Tobin hasn’t brought any fresh clothes, obviously, so she wanders out of the bathroom in a towel to ask if she can borrow a t-shirt. It might be December, but her tan lines indicate that she’s been photographing somewhere extremely sunny and wearing plenty of tank tops while she does it. They literally lived in each other’s pockets for six years of boarding school so this should be fine, totally normal, but she’s barely even wrung out her hair and the water drips down the muscles of her shoulders in a way that makes Christen want to put her tongue on her.

The feeling strikes her so hard and so suddenly that she practically throws the shirt at Tobin and dives out of the room for a reason she’ll think up later. 

She’s composed herself by the time Tobin finally comes downstairs, hair semi-dry and dressed neatly and tidily enough that her mom won’t fuss. ‘Ready to go?’

‘I was ready half an hour ago,  _ and _ I had to straighten my hair.’

Tobin just laughs, because the constant struggle to be ready at the same time as each other is one of the running themes of their relationship. Friendship. ‘Okay, princess, point taken. Let’s go.’

***

Christen does her best to practise thankfulness at all times, in all areas of her life. It’s a habit she’s consciously cultivated, even in the last few months when it became hard sometimes to see any light at all. She is deeply fortunate in so many ways, privileged to an almost unconscionable degree, and she tries to acknowledge it every day. 

Even so, there are times when it particularly strikes her. She sits down beside her best friend, at a family table, stripped of her own parents but welcomed in unquestioningly and unconditionally by somebody else’s, and attempts to swallow the lump in her throat as every Heath within reach tries to serve her food at once. 

It’s one of those lunches which takes forever because no one can stop talking long enough to eat more than one bite in succession. Christen joins in eagerly and naturally enough - it’s not hard work, like it can be with some people - but the months of grieving and shutting herself away have left her out of practice, and she’s tired when they finally clear the table and move to the couches, Tobin’s mom calling something about fetching a new bottle of wine and her sisters gleefully setting out the Monopoly board.

‘No,’ says Tobin firmly, ‘absolutely not.’

‘You are a  _ sore loser.’ _

‘I don’t mind the  _ losing  _ but I still have a scar where Perry scratched me. Look. Why can’t we play Pictionary?’

‘Because you’re the only one who can draw, and you know perfectly well I didn’t mean to scratch you, I was just reaching for the money -’

‘- your _ thievery -’ _

‘- my lawfully incurred rent, and your arm was just in the way of my fingernail.’ 

‘Tobin,’ calls Cindy again, ‘the wine!’

‘Yeah, mom, I heard you. Give me a hand, Chris?’

Christen recognizes an out when she sees one, and follows Tobin into the library, which is dark and snug as the light fades. Christen navigates around a map table covered in paper and paint and heads for the wine rack on the far wall, but Tobin intercepts her and herds her into one of the fat leather armchairs, her eyes big and excited. ‘Can I give you your present now?’

She has to laugh. ‘Tobin, you’ve already given me enough presents for at least the next five years.’

‘Oops.’ Tobin pulls a flat blue box from the pocket of her jeans, spinning it casually between two fingers. ‘My bad. Should I just keep it?’

‘You’re really annoying, you know that.’

Tobin just smiles at her and hands her the box. It’s jewelry, obviously, which is unusually conventional for Tobin - not to mention risky, given how selective Christen can be about what she wears - so she prises it open and prepares to make equally conventional grateful noises. But although there’s nothing showy about what she finds, it’s not boring either; in fact, it’s entirely  _ her,  _ a matching set of five slim gold rings, subtle enough to glint rather than flash. 

‘Delicate but strong,’ explains Tobin quietly. ‘Like you.’

‘They’re so pretty. Thank you.’

Tobin lifts each ring from the box and slides them, very precisely, one after the other onto Christen’s fingers. Christen can’t quite identify why it leaves her so breathless. And then Tobin lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles, just once, just casually, _there,_ _all done,_ and oh, _that’s_ why _._

And then Tobin doesn’t let go straight away, thumb brushing the spot where her lips had been just a second before, and Christen wonders if this is what a heart attack feels like. 

‘Happy birthday, Chris.’ 


	7. sixth

_ 30th December  _

_ The sixth day of Christmas  _

‘Back up,’ says Tobin wearily. ‘Who said what?’

Kelley takes a deep breath on the other end of the phone. ‘Emily told me that Lindsey told her that her mom - Lindsey’s - was told by Crystal’s mom that Becky and  _ her  _ mom saw a trailer full of geese pulling up behind your house, and then  _ I _ said to Emily, who but Tobito would buy Old MacDonald’s entire farm to impress a girl.’

‘That’s hilarious, Kelley. Really makes that story.’

‘I know. I am. It does. So is it true?’

‘Is  _ what _ true?’

‘You know exactly what and you’re being deliberately difficult, but I’ll forgive you this time because you can just explain in person.’

‘And how am I going to do that,’ mutters Tobin, massaging the back of her neck as a horrible suspicion begins to form in her mind. 

‘I’m outside your house.’

‘Give me strength.’

‘You’ll need it if you’re going to corral livestock and haybales for Christen.’

***

‘Tobin.’ Kelley looks half-awestruck, half-horrified and ultimately hugely entertained. ‘You do realize that there are forty-two geese here?’

‘They were a job lot,’ growls Tobin.

‘Who just up and sells  _ forty-two geese?’ _

The geese hiss at them furiously from the pen on the back of the trailer, perhaps sensing food, or weakness. Tobin gazes at them resignedly. ‘Geese get slaughtered after Christmas if no one buys them. Like turkeys after Thanksgiving.’

‘Is that what they told you.’

‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’

‘Grammatically, sure.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Kelley sees Tobin’s end-of-tether folded arms and sighs, dropping the joker act. ‘You must know by now. You’re a soft touch.’

‘Kell, I’m not in the mood for therapy right now, so spit it out or go away. I’m not kidding.’

‘Jeez, don’t jump down my throat. It’s not a criticism. It’s a good thing, mostly, unless you can’t rein it in.’ Kelley kicks a stone down the path. ‘You’re a goddamn puppy, Tobin. Always have been. You have the softest heart, and it’s lovely, except you’re only human and you can’t fix everything, and you just - you can’t  _ protect  _ yourself until you realize that.’

‘I’m not sure how we ended up staring quite this fucking intently into my soul given that all I’ve done is buy a few more geese than I maybe needed.’

‘I’m not really talking about the geese.’

Tobin feels stubbornly defensive without really understanding why. Maybe it’s the comedown from how perfect Christen’s birthday was. Maybe it’s because in fact there was something not  _ quite  _ perfect about it - something unfinished, something slightly out of reach - and she can’t work out what it is. 

She could ask what Kelley  _ is  _ talking about, which Kelley is visibly desperate to tell her, or she could take a stand against the indignity of being unexpectedly psychoanalyzed in the shadow of a trailer full of geese. 

She chooses the latter. 

‘Are you going to help me with these or not?’

Kelley sighs. ‘Only because I can see how much you need it.’

***

Originally the plan was to secretly install the geese in their new accommodation and herd a couple to Christen’s door by way of example, but geese are not naturally stealthy animals.

‘I think they’re suspicious,’ pants Kelley, trying to corner the nearest hissing, screaming bird by a fencepost. ‘They probably think we’re taking them away to eat.’

‘I thought you said you were going to help?’

‘Can’t you hear them quacking  _ ‘avenge me, my brothers’?’ _

‘Or are we psychoanalyzing geese now too?’

_ ‘Do  _ geese quack? Is that just ducks?’

‘I swear to god, Kell.’

‘I don’t see you having better luck.’

Like a crumb of approval from an otherwise uncaring god, one of the geese chooses that exact moment to flee directly into Tobin’s arms. Tobin makes a mental note to do more good deeds. ‘Suck it. You have ten seconds to win over that bird or I’m going in.’

‘That’s what she said. Ow, okay, I’m  _ trying. _ They’re very bitey, aren’t they?’

The geese honk enthusiastically as they approach the house and Christen opens the door long before Tobin has any hope of ringing the bell. It says something about the last few days that she doesn’t scream or freak out or even really look surprised; she just blinks. ‘Are those geese? Is that how you’re meant to hold them?’

‘Tobin was going to pick it up by the neck like a handbag but I stopped her.’

‘That is not even slightly true.’ Tobin waves weakly with the hand that isn’t cradling a wriggling bird. ‘Hey, Chris. Happy sixth day of Christmas.’

‘Thanks. Um, I understood the hens and the partridges and the doves, but I am kind of confused right now.’

‘They’re back-up egg-layers. In case you have, er. Chicken problems.’

‘You’re something else, Tobs, you know that?’ Christen’s smiling, but her eyes are almost  _ too  _ calm, like she’s not really taking it all in. ‘It’s lucky I like omelettes.’

There are a number of things Tobin could say to that - affectionate agreement, a snappy one-liner, a cheeky offer to eat said omelettes if they’re on offer - but none of them really match Christen’s face right now. The goose in her arms goes miraculously still as she stands in silence, gazing at her best friend as though she can fix whatever’s wrong just by looking. Christen just gazes back. 

Kelley’s looking back and forth between them, until finally there’s a crunch of gravel as she turns halfway on her heel. ‘Um, Tobin, this is definitely not a sentence I ever expected to say, but do you want to give me your goose?’

‘I’d love to but I think they might team up and kill you.’

‘Here.’ Kelley shifts her own goose under one arm and gestures impatiently. ‘Just...oh no you don’t, flappy fucker.  _ Ow. _ There we go. Sooo, I’m gonna put these guys back in the pen but I’ll see you both tomorrow?’

‘Bye, Kell,’ says Christen - politely, that’s the word. No feeling behind it. 

When Kelley has made her way gingerly back down the path, Tobin finally steps forward and rests a hand carefully on Christen’s elbow. ‘You okay?’

Christen nods automatically, then nods again like she can convince herself of it, then finally shakes her head. 

‘Okay,’ says Tobin quietly. ‘That’s okay. Let’s go inside.’

It takes every ounce of self-control not to wrap Christen up in a giant hug the second the door closes, but Christen’s never been a physical communicator the way Tobin is, and Tobin doesn’t want to suffocate her. Instead, she settles for ushering Christen to the couch and tucking her up with one of the knitted blankets from the old linen chest. Christen’s eyes follow her anxiously as she heads to the kitchen to start some tea, and it’s obvious when Tobin returns with the mugs that she’s been waiting for her to come back. 

‘It’s just a bit of a wobbly day,’ promises Christen as Tobin settles down at the other end of the couch. 

‘I know.’

‘It won’t last.’

‘It’s okay if it does.’

‘It just feels so… extra shitty to feel this way at Christmas. It’s such a waste of the holidays.’

Tobin sighs. ‘I think it’s easy for Christmas spirit to turn into pressure. It’s just a time of year like any other, but for some reason we’re supposed to be super joyful and put on a different festive activity every hour and make every moment special, and if we don’t it feels like we’ve failed.’

Christen scrunches her nose. ‘But you love Christmas.’

‘I love Christmas because of the people I get to spend it with. That time is important to me whether they’re happy or cranky or sad. I mean, sure, I wouldn’t say no to an overall balance in favor of happy, but people are people, you know? You should never think that it’s a waste to feel whatever it is you need to feel.’

‘But I don’t  _ want  _ to feel this way.’ The corner of Christen’s mouth wobbles, and it makes Tobin’s throat tighten. ‘I’m sick of it.’

‘Chris - I understand, I promise. I get it. But I think, I  _ really  _ think things will go better for you if you give yourself permission to have these shitty days. Christmas or not.’

Christen nods unhappily, hunching under her blanket. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘I know I am.’

It’s not easy for Tobin to be patient at the best of times, but it’s been particularly hard to accept that however hard she tries, however much she wants to, she can’t fix the fact that lately Christen has sometimes just been sad. This is a pain she can’t take away. It leaves her feeling stuck, rooted anxiously to her spot on the far end of the couch, waiting for some sign of what she should do next or how she can best help. Christen looks calmer for a moment, like she’s just focusing on her tea, but then she hiccups forlornly and Tobin sees the tears sliding silently down her face. Tobin abandons her mug on the coffee table, about to hurtle forward with arms outstretched, but she stops herself at the last second because she wants -

She wants to kiss Christen so badly it almost scares her. She wants to wipe the tears from her cheeks and hold her face in her hands and look into her eyes. She wants to wrap her up and keep her safe and never let her go. 

But it’s not the right time for any of that.

She’s about to scoot across anyway, more gently, more appropriately, when Christen flaps her hand as though to wave her away. Tobin freezes, but Christen shakes her head vehemently. ‘I didn’t mean - ’m not - I’ll be fine. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to pull me out of this.’

_ ‘Chris.’  _ This time Tobin can’t stop herself reaching out, gently putting Christen’s mug to one side and taking her hands. ‘It’s not about  _ have to,  _ okay? This isn’t an obligation for me, it’s a - an act of service. I’ll do anything I can to make you happy.’

Christen stares down at their joined hands. Tears drip off her nose. ‘You do make me happy.’

Tobin isn’t sure whether to laugh, or scoff, or start crying herself. She wants to ask  _ how  _ happy, exactly, or what kind of happy, whether it’s the same bone-deep, almost aching joy that Tobin feels whenever she hears Christen’s voice or touches her or sees her smile. She still wants to kiss her. She wants a lot of things. 

She doesn’t do any of them. 

‘Apparently I’m not doing a very good job.’

‘You are,’ says Christen. ‘You always do.’

So Tobin holds her;  _ just  _ holds her. 

And that’s enough for now.

  
  



	8. seventh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I blinked and December was already half-over... maybe it's the fun of sharing this with you guys :) 
> 
> hope you're all doing well and have some nice holiday plans. it'll be a weird one this year but I recommend a) cookies b) candles c) gin.

_31st December_

_The seventh day of Christmas_

‘Christen, honey!’ Tobin’s mom opens the door with that big, generous Heath smile, already holding out an arm to usher Christen inside. ‘Come in out of the cold. I’m afraid Tobs is still fast asleep, but there’s coffee in the pot and I was just about to start some breakfast if you’re hungry?’

‘That’s actually why I’m here,’ explains Christen, de-gloving and de-scarfing as she steps into the glowing warmth of the hallway. ‘I thought you might like some eggs? I brought chicken _and_ goose, just to keep it interesting.’

‘Oh, I was hoping you might. We can compare and contrast.’

The kitchen is warm and bright after the chilly walk, and smells strongly enough of pine needles and cinnamon that Christen registers the scent despite what she’s pretty sure is going to be a nasty cold. She makes a mental note to invest in a more suitable early-morning egg-collecting outfit. For now, it’s enough to sit at the table and chat away with Cindy, who firmly ignores any offers of help with the breakfast and interrogates Christen about the house and her work and her news in the way her own mother would have done. 

It’s probably forty minutes before there are signs of life upstairs and eventually a shuffling noise in the hall. Cindy calls out in the direction of the shuffle. ‘Tobin, look who’s here!’

Tobin appears in the doorway wincing at the sound of her mother’s voice, which Christen has to admit is almost offensively cheery for 9am, and makes wordlessly for the coffee pot. She drops a fumbly kiss on the crown of Christen’s head as she passes, which Christen tries not to think too much about because Tobin is visibly still half-asleep and probably has no idea she’s done it. 

‘Omelette?’

‘Sure.’

‘Christen brought fresh eggs.’

Tobin perks up very slightly, either at the mention of the eggs or the smell of the coffee. ‘Really? How are they?’

‘Try for yourself. Chicken or goose?’

‘Do they taste different?’

‘Not really,’ supplies Christen. ‘The goose eggs are just bigger.’

Tobin hmphs, having apparently exhausted her pre-coffee tolerance for talking. She raises her eyebrows at Christen over the rim of her mug - _you okay?_ \- and smiles when Christen nods. Her bare feet brush Christen’s socked ones under the table, probably by accident, but they’re sitting just far apart enough that Christen does wonder. 

Cindy smiles fondly at her silent daughter as she reaches for scallions and mushrooms. ‘Looking forward to tonight?’

New Year’s Eve in Shallow Lake means wassailing, an ancient English practice of alcohol-infused carol singing which Kelley had implemented after realizing it was essentially trick-or-treating where the treats were guaranteed. Somebody more practical - probably Becky - had pointed out that it was only guaranteed if you were able to sing in a way that made people feel generous rather than homicidal, to which Kelley had responded that holiday spirit would make up for any lapses in tuning. 

Tobin finishes her first cup of coffee and heads for a refill, already looking brighter. ‘Only if Chris backs me up this year when Kell tries to make me do We Three Kings.’

‘I didn’t _not_ back you up!’ 

‘You couldn’t stop laughing and didn’t say anything. I count that as a betrayal.’

Cindy chuckles. ‘You loved choir at school!’ 

‘I only joined in the first place because I wanted to hang out with Chris,’ says Tobin simply. She takes a forkful of omelette and chews thoughtfully. ‘This is good!’

Christen smiles sweetly. ‘Welcome to your new egg-based diet.’

She politely declines Cindy’s offer to stay for lunch and Tobin swoops in as she tries to clear the table. ‘Let me. I’ll walk you back.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I want to, silly. Let me just grab a sweater.’

There’s a nervy, chiming note in Tobin’s voice, like she’s excited about something and can’t quite hide it. Christen should be used to this after the last few days, but it sparks the same feeling within her as it always does, the same combination of warmth and fondness and inexplicable pride. 

The air smells of woodsmoke, the bare trees very dark against the white sky. It’s the kind of winter day where everything feels muffled. Their footsteps are soft against the sidewalk, like someone’s put a blanket down, and Tobin squints upwards. ‘I think it’s going to snow.’

‘It is.’

‘I don’t see you for four months and you become a weather prophet?’

‘Mrs Harvey told me. You didn’t think you were the first egg delivery, did you?’ 

‘My heart is broken.’ 

‘They’re about to go out of business, you know. The farm.’ Christen sighs. ‘I don’t really think we should be drinking cow’s milk, ethically, but… it’s a really old family farm and they treat their cows super well. They’ve won awards. It just seems like such a shame, at Christmas of all times.’

‘She didn’t say anything to me.’

Tobin sounds genuinely surprised, even upset. Christen looks at her curiously and nods. ‘They probably don’t want people to know. She only told me because she was a really good friend of my mom’s.’

‘I remember.’ Tobin swipes half-heartedly at a leaf on the sidewalk. ‘We went to visit with school, fifth grade, and your mom came along as the extra adult. I was jealous because my mom was too busy.’

‘Yeah. They were friends ever since, and it just...I guess selfishly it seems like another link gone, you know, if they have to leave? And they’re such nice people.’

‘I’m sorry, Chris.’

 _That_ sounds almost absent-minded, and Christen tries not to be hurt that Tobin’s apparently lost interest so quickly. She looks preoccupied, frowning at the ground straight ahead of her as they start up the drive, which is uncharacteristic; she’s usually so interested in her surroundings. She perks up as they get to the house, though, and tugs at Christen’s sleeve. ‘Hey, I want to show you something.’

‘Tobs, we’ve _just_ established that it’s going to snow. Hence it’s _cold._ Really cold.’

‘Come look. Please.’

Christen reluctantly puts her keys back in her purse and follows Tobin around the side of the house. It’s a view she’s seen a thousand times: the sweep of lawn down to the lakeshore, and the deck, and the water as still as glass - except - 

She can’t help but catch her breath as she sees seven swans swim round the nearest spur of land, one by one like ships. There’s no wind, nothing else moving except their serene glide, the proud shape of their necks, the ruffling under-feathers of their wings as soft and delicate the ballerina’s headdress, that last time at the ballet with her mom…

Then it hits her.

‘Was this you?’

Tobin nods. She’s leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, to try and still the nervous energy. ‘They needed to be relocated from a park right in the middle of the city and none of the nature reserves could take them. Don’t worry, I cleared it with the environment agency. There are - well. There are a _few_ more coming, but they’re being brought over seven at a time so they don’t all freak out.’

‘You _made_ me a Swan Lake?’

‘Yeah, I did.’

‘You remembered. About the ballet.’

‘Chris.’ Tobin’s looking at her with an expression that could have been a smirk if it wasn’t so gentle. ‘I pay attention.’

There are no words to explain how sincerely, straightforwardly thankful Christen is; but she launches herself into Tobin’s arms, hard enough it’s lucky Tobin is braced against the wall, and she doesn’t need a single syllable.

There’s work to catch up on, later, and Christen is disciplined enough that she does do it, but she can’t stop herself getting up every little while to gaze out of the study window at the swans calmly wheeling on the lake below her. Occasionally she can hear Tobin pottering downstairs, fixing a snack or a hot drink and delivering them to the door with a quick smile and the silent promise that she’ll be there when Christen’s done. 

Christen feels light, and somehow at peace. In fact, she finally realizes, she feels truly _at home_ for the first time in months.

It’s long dark when she’s finished. It’s lucky she left her phone on silent because the group chat is blowing up with debates over the setlist (as though they don’t sing the same five songs each year), and the proposed route around town (as though they don’t already know which families offer cookies and which just wait for them to go away), and Alex seeking input on which of two subtly different cashmere scarves she should choose. Christen grins as she discovers she’s actually looking forward to it.

Tobin is lying full-length on the couch with a book, bare feet propped up in front of her. She smiles as Christen appears in the doorway, but she looks sleepy, and Christen feels warmer just seeing her. ‘Finished up?’

‘All done. I think Press Industries will survive another night.’

‘I’ll tell my broker not to sell after all.’ Tobin swings her legs round. ‘Chris, we don’t have to go tonight if you don’t want to.’

Christen holds out her hands and drags her upright. ‘Would you believe I’m actually excited about it?’

‘Are you sure? It’s so cold out.’

‘It’s _December,_ Tobin.’

‘I’ll stay with you.’

‘No, I want to go.’

It does start to snow, just as they’ve all assembled at Kelley’s house, the first few flakes starting to fall as her mom doles out old-fashioned lanterns and warm travel mugs of wreathingly-spiced mulled wine. Becky has been put in charge of the route, because she’s the only person who has any chance of corralling them successfully from house to house, and they set off chattering down the drive.

They’re not out for long, just a couple of hours punctuated by trooping in and out of people’s warm kitchens to be fed mince pies and more wine. Christen is shivering but pleasantly buzzed by the time they get back to Kelley’s. It’s snowing hard now, whirling around them, and she’s not sure whether she’s leaning further into Tobin than before or vice versa. 

‘Five minutes till midnight,’ yells Kelley, self-appointed queen of time, throwing open the double doors in a way which Christen notes is guaranteed to let all the heat _out_ into the freezing night. ‘There’s champagne on the table.’

Tobin is smiling up into the sky, her face aglow in the light from the house. Christen half-turns and nudges her. ‘Want to go inside?’

‘Nah, let’s let the stampede settle first. It’s nice out here when it’s quiet.’

‘Are you saying you didn’t like my singing?’

 _‘Your_ singing is fine. It’s when the rest of us try to join in that it all goes wrong.’

The doors swing shut in Kelley’s wake and the sounds of celebration are muffled behind them. The curtains have been drawn across all the windows, but there’s just enough light to still see the individual snowflakes settling on Tobin’s coat and the ends of her hair. Christen hugs her sides, feeling the chill start to settle in her bones now that they’re standing still, until Tobin reaches for her elbow and tugs gently to free her hand. It wouldn’t be particularly intimate - it’s been eighteen years, it’s not like they’ve never held hands before - except that they’re alone, in the dark, in the snow, and Christen can feel Tobin’s breath warm against her cheek. Her heart thuds as she realizes that it really must be close to midnight by now, and she _knows_ suddenly that if Tobin doesn’t do it first, she’s going to lean in and -

‘You two,’ calls Kelley, the door banging open. ‘Get in here, it’s nearly time.’

Christen is so frustrated she might actually scream. Tobin would usually be the one to yell at Kelley to go away and leave them alone, but she looks kind of dazed, shaking her head slightly before she ushers Christen into the house ahead of her. It’s too bright inside after the soft darkness, too loud with cheers and clinking glasses, and Christen is glad for the comfort of Tobin’s hand on the small of her back. 

‘Love you guys,’ says Kelley sincerely, handing them both flutes of champagne. Christen _almost_ forgives her. 

‘TEN,’ bawls Emily, by now slightly unsteady on her feet. ‘NINE -’

Tobin meets Christen’s eyes and grins knowingly as the chant takes off around them. She looks almost wistful, and Christen wonders if the same thoughts had been running through her mind out there in the dark. ‘Chris.’

‘Mm?’

‘You okay?’

‘- FIVE -’

They both know it’s a deeper question than it sounds, after the year Christen’s had. There have been days where she was pretty sure she’ll never be _okay_ again, when everything had just seemed fundamentally cracked down the middle - and that’s not fixed yet, may never be, but it’s becoming easier to accept. Now, looking at Tobin, all flushed cheeks and flyaway hair and soft eyes, she’s thinking of something she wants, not something she misses.

‘- TWO -’

It would be so easy to put a hand out, to brush her thumb along Tobin’s jaw, to put her foot over the precipice and fall and hope that Tobin catches her. But for all it might be a new year, she doesn’t want to start this new chapter surrounded by noise and alcohol and people. It’ll keep.

Instead, she just puts a hand on Tobin’s elbow to steady herself, and kisses her on the cheek. ‘Happy New Year, Tobs.’

‘Happy New Year, Chris.’

  
  



	9. eighth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you should have known it was coming... believe me this one tested my ingenuity. 🎶 eight maids a milking... 🎶
> 
> (the song doesn't exist in this universe. these gifts are coming directly from Tobin’s unique brain.)

_ 1 January  _

_ The eighth day of Christmas  _

Christen absolutely, unequivocally should not have stayed out till midnight. 

She wakes up with a headache that thuds right through her temples despite the fact that her brain feels like it’s stuffed with wool. She sneezes while she’s still half-asleep and startles herself, then sneezes three more times before she can catch a breath and sinks back into her pillows exhausted. It’s not the first time she’s been ill without her parents looking after her - she spent six years at boarding school, for goodness sake - but she’s never been ill, alone, in this house. She sniffles, then sneezes, then starts to cry.

Her phone is blinking on the nightstand, and she scrabbles for it out of pure habit even though, sure enough, the light pierces straight through her head. The text of her emails blurs in front of her eyes and she scrolls pretty much unseeingly until suddenly her screen is filled with a selfie of Mrs Harvey with a cow. 

It’s so unexpected that Christen blinks for a solid ten seconds before she even registers the message. 

_ Hi Christen _

_ We’re so happy to have you on board and can’t express how grateful we are. Looking forward to speaking about the next steps once you’re feeling better! _

_ In the meantime, if you need a milk delivery you have only to ask!  _

_ Best wishes, and happy new year! _

_ Laura x _

She shakes her head determinedly a few times, like it’ll clear the fog. It doesn’t. The message is still there, and makes no more sense than it did the first time.  _ On board  _ how?  _ Next steps  _ where?  _ Grateful  _ why?

...Oh.

Oh, of all the fucking things. Cows. 

A shower helps, kind of, to the extent that it leaves her head clear enough to pull on some clothes and stumble downstairs. It’s misty out, the trees no more than blurry outlines in the distance, the swans -  _ lots  _ of swans - gliding noiselessly on the lake, the calls of the birds in the branches muffled even through the faint ringing in Christen’s ears. She pretty much sleepwalks her way through the egg collection and feeding routine. The chickens and geese cluster around her feet, pecking expectantly, only to scatter in panic with each of her increasingly explosive sneezes. It feels like a metaphor for her utterly frazzled state of mind. 

It’s freezing cold, her throat feels like broken glass, and she is absolutely seething by the time she gets back inside only to hear the bell ring. 

When she opens the door to see Tobin, wearing a fucking Christmas sweater and smiling that  _ infuriatingly  _ beautiful smile and absolutely glowing with health, Christen wastes no time shoving her phone in her face. ‘Does this have something to do with you?’

‘Oh.’

‘Yep.  _ Oh. _ Why is Mrs Harvey emailing me at 5am on New Year’s Day?’

‘Chris, I can explain -’

‘You’d fucking better, because it sounds uncannily like I now have some kind of involvement in the dairy farm?’

‘Can I come in?’

‘No.’

‘You’re shivering -’

‘In that case you’d better talk fast.’

Tobin swallows. ‘It was what you said yesterday - about the farm, and Mrs Harvey and your mom, and how it would be another link gone if they had to move away. So I went to see them, and…’

‘And  _ what,  _ Tobin?’

‘I bought it. It’s yours.’

It had been the most likely explanation for that bizarre email, so Christen shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s still a shock to hear it confirmed. She stares dumbstruck at Tobin but then she can’t hold back a sneeze, then another, and is so furious at the indignity of it that she snaps. ‘Just… what the _ fuck.  _ It’s crazy. You’re crazy. You bought me a  _ farm?’ _

Tobin flinches and Christen hates her for it, hates how cruel it makes her feel. But it  _ is  _ crazy. The whole thing is completely insane - not just the farm, but the fact that she now owns hens and fucking  _ geese,  _ and there are partridges and doves flying around everywhere and even now her head is clanging with birdsong. And she never asked for a single bit of it.

‘You don’t have to do anything,’ Tobin tries, her voice tight and unfamiliar. ‘With the farm, I mean. You’re just the investor. They’re open to you getting involved if you want to, but otherwise - it was an injection of capital, no strings, and I just thought you might - and I put them in touch with one of Dad’s strategy consultants to look into the profitability going forward, so...’ She trails off. ‘I really thought you’d be pleased.’

‘I have literally no idea why you’d think that.’

‘Because you care,’ shoots back Tobin, surprisingly insistent given how unsure she’d just sounded. ‘You care about the Harveys and you care about the farm. You literally said so. I mean, I knew it would be a surprise, but I don’t understand why you’re so mad.’

‘And I don’t understand why  _ you  _ can’t see that you’re utterly out of your fucking mind.’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘Isn’t it?’

Christen’s head is throbbing so hard she can barely focus, even when Tobin is standing right there looking like Christen’s slapped her. ‘You can’t give someone forty cows and a business model as a Christmas present. Why can’t you see that? What’s  _ wrong _ with you?’

‘If you don’t want it, that’s fine. The farm’s safe whatever you decide. You can forget all about this and I’ll transfer the interest somewhere else. They just needed help, and I thought it was important to you, but if I was wrong, I’m sorry.’ Tobin shivers hard, just once, hands coming up to hug her sides protectively. Her voice wavers slightly, but Christen knows somehow it isn’t from the cold. ‘I’m sorry about all of this. I didn’t mean…’ 

Something sharp, anxious, cuts through the haze of frustration fogging up Christen’s brain. ‘Tobin -’

‘I’m gonna go,’ says Tobin quietly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll fix things with Laura.’ 

Christen is exhausted after she closes the door, so drained she can’t think straight. It feels like the whole conversation - the _ fight,  _ she amends miserably, that was most definitely a fight - had happened to someone else, with Christen just watching from the sidelines or floating high above, looking down at the tops of her and Tobin’s heads. Nothing feels real outside the dull, steady pounding between her ears. 

It’s blissfully warm in the kitchen, and she knows she should make some hot tea and take some Tylenol and get herself properly settled - but the chair is right in her path, and she only means to sit down for a moment, only rest her head on the table for a second… 

She wakes from her doze with a jerk and doesn’t know how long she’s been asleep. The sun is now full and bright and streaming through the windows. At first she doesn’t know what woke her up, but then a shadow cuts across her vision. There’s someone moving around quietly, and Christen is about to scream when her dulled brain finally realizes it’s just Becky. 

‘You’re awake,’ Becky greets her amiably. She’s hefting grocery bags onto the countertop, like everything is normal, like she’s meant to be there. 

Christen blinks at her stupidly. ‘What are you doing here?’ 

‘Tobin sent me. She’s been pulled into some emergency meeting so she gave me her spare key. Didn’t she tell you?’

Christen shakes her head and tries to speak, clearing her throat painfully. ‘What’s all that?’

Becky peers at the nearest bag. ‘Ingredients. Your chicken noodle soup, I think. Tobs is going to text me the recipe.’ She hesitates and sits down on the next chair, her voice gentle. ‘Christen, did she really not say anything? I thought this was something she’d planned for you.’ 

‘Tobin plans a lot of stuff,’ says Christen dully. 

She remembers the way Tobin had looked on the doorstep that morning, all that hope and excitement, and the way Christen had made her face fall.

She remembers Tobin’s shining eyes as the snow fell around them in Kelley’s garden, and how much, how  _ badly  _ she had wanted to kiss her. 

She remembers that it’s New Year’s Day, and she’s just sent away the only thing that made the last year bearable. 

She’s very glad, suddenly, that she’s too tired to cry any more. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trust me on this, folks. all part of the narrative arc.


	10. ninth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎶 nine ladies dancing 🎶

_ 2 January  _

_ The ninth day of Christmas  _

Tobin barely sleeps. It isn’t like her, tossing and turning for what feels like - and might actually be - hours, replaying Christen’s every frown and angry word and kicking herself for being so stupid. They’ve fallen out before, inevitable over so many years of friendship, but this time it makes her strangely anxious. 

Worry pinches at her throat until she finally gets out of bed, pacing her bedroom trying to work out what went wrong. Things had been good - Christen had been happy - and she’d just started to come to terms with the realization that she wanted Christen as more than her best friend. As much it had scared Tobin at first, she’d started to be tentatively excited about it, like a secret she couldn’t wait to share. 

But now, she can’t help but wonder if Christen was angry  _ because _ Tobin wanted more.

It doesn’t make _sense,_ or anything; Tobin hadn’t kissed her that day on the couch, or any of the many times she’d wanted to after that, or even  said anything, and there’s no reason Christen should know. But now the thought’s in her head, she can’t shake it. 

Tobin steadily makes herself more and more miserable until the dawn light finally starts creeping through the curtains. She skimps on breakfast, grabbing coffee and an apple and heading straight out for a brisk and freezing walk, but she’s so quiet even by her standards that her family notice something’s up. Her mom ambushes her at the foot of the stairs when she gets back. ‘Tobin?’

‘Mm?’ 

‘What’s up?’

Tobin swings from the banister, debating how likely she is to get away with a deflection. Not very, is the answer. ‘Just didn’t sleep very well.’

‘Something on your mind?’

‘Mom…’

‘No judgment, honey. You know that. But I wouldn’t be a mom if I didn’t at least try to help.’

Tobin wavers. She’s been turning it over and over in her mind for so many hours now that she doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know what to do. Maybe she’s just tired, but to her horror she feels her throat closing up and her eyes pricking with what she knows is about to turn into a sob. 

Her mom knows it too, and puts a gentle arm around her shoulders, steering her away from the clamor of her siblings in the kitchen into the hushed library. It all comes out then: the chickens, the geese, the stupid stupid  _ stupid  _ farm, Christen’s face.  _ It’s crazy. You’re crazy. _

‘I just want her to be happy. That was all I was trying to do - it was meant to be fun, I thought the distraction would  _ help _ . And it was working, but then… I don’t know, I guess I just pushed it too far, and now - she was so mad, mom.’

‘It sounds to me more like she was sick and miserable, and you took her by surprise.’

‘Same difference.’

‘No,’ says Cindy firmly, ‘it isn’t. You and Christen have been each other’s strength since you were little girls. Everyone around you knows it so you can be sure Christen knows it too. She might be upset right now, but she won’t doubt your motives once she’s had a chance to think it through.’

‘But what if she doesn’t think it through? What if she just stays mad?’

‘Oh, Tobin. Now you’re just wallowing. If you were in Christen’s shoes, would you throw away twenty years of friendship over one little misunderstanding?’

‘No.’

‘Then you should give Christen enough credit to do the same.’

At twenty-four, Tobin is old enough to both love and hate that her mom is always right.

Tobin trudges over to Christen’s with a pit in her stomach, trying to use the walk to rehearse her apology and getting increasingly frustrated when she can’t find the right words. The house seems to loom forebodingly in front of her as she pauses on the doorstep, takes a final breath, and winces as the sound of the bell sets her nerves jangling over again. Three of the turtle doves eye her suspiciously from their perch on a pear tree.

Crystal opens the door with a finger to her lips. ‘Shhh. Christen’s sleeping.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s good, I guess.’ Tobin twists her hands. ‘Should I come back later, or -’

‘Come in, silly. You know she’ll want to see you when she wakes up.’

Tobin  _ doesn’t  _ know that - that’s the whole point - but Crystal is holding the door open expectantly, and it’s letting all the cold air in, so Tobin pulls off her gloves and steps inside. There’s frost on the windows still. The kitchen smells spicy and warm, like cinnamon and hot chocolate. 

‘Have you had breakfast?’

‘Yeah. I mean, kind of. I’m not really hungry.’

‘Chris texted to ask if I would do the egg round, so there’s plenty if you want it,’ explains Crystal, setting out fresh mugs and a loaf of bread on the counter. ‘She got up to let me in but she looked so exhausted I sent her back to bed. That’s one hell of a cold she’s got.’

‘Yeah.’ Tobin sighs and figures it’s now or never. ‘Were you gonna toast that for Chris? Mind if I take it up? I really need to talk to her.’

‘Sure thing.’ Crystal cuts two slices and gets out the butter, which Tobin can’t help but notice comes from the Harveys. She eyes Tobin suspiciously casually. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Not really, but I - hope it will be.’

Crystal squeezes Tobin’s shoulder as she sets off up the stairs, the plateful of toast held ahead of her like a buttery peace offering. Christen’s door is ajar and her bedroom is dark and quiet, curtains only open a crack, but she seems to be awake. Tobin pokes her head in tentatively. ‘Hi.’

Christen looks up blearily and starts to scramble upright when she sees who it is. ‘Hi.’ The stuffiness takes the edge out of her tone. ‘No cows today?’

‘No. Crystal made toast though.’

‘Thanks.’

Tobin edges into the room and holds out the plate, hovering uncertainly beside the bed before she makes up her mind and perches on the window seat. ‘Chris, I’m really sorry -’ 

‘Tobs -’

‘- I should never have done something like that without -’

‘Can I go first, please?’ Christen reaches out and puts a hand on Tobin’s thigh, and Tobin is so surprised she shuts up instantly. ‘Thank you. Tobs,  _ I’m _ sorry how I reacted yesterday. I was feeling really terrible, and yes, you’re right, you should have told me before you did something so - significant - but there was no reason for me to be so aggressive, and -’

‘But -’

‘No, honestly. You’ve never done anything to warrant me behaving like that to you.’

‘But you  _ were  _ right. I went totally off the rails, and I should have known it would be too much. It was insensitive.’

‘I think I get to decide that.’

‘It sounded yesterday like you had.’

‘Tobin.’ 

‘Can you just - let me be sorry about this, please?’

Christen smiles. Tobin feels her heart thump almost painfully in her chest. ‘I will accept a limited level of sorry to take account of the overkill, but you’re not allowed to be properly sorry because I know why you did it.’

Tobin is so relieved she thinks for a second she might cry. She’s been clenching her hands so tightly in her lap that there’ll be nail marks on her palms, but Christen reaches out and gently prises them open, squeezing her fingers reassuringly. ‘I mean it, Tobs. Just please tell me you haven’t got me anything else.’

‘Um.’

_ ‘Tobin.’ _

‘No, it’s okay, it’s not alive,’ Tobin says all in a rush, hanging onto Christen’s hands. ‘I just bought tickets to the Christmas show in Fort Milton. It’s the last night. It’s not ballet, but… I thought it’d be nice.’

Something flickers in Christen’s expression. It’s unfamiliar, but Tobin wonders if it might possibly be longing. ‘Tobin, I can’t go all the way into town just to sit in a theater and annoy everyone with my sneezing.’

‘No, I know. I returned them.’ Christen definitely looks wistful, and Tobin feels the seed of an idea starting to form. ‘But we  _ could _ still go, if you’re up for it.’ 

‘Unless you spent yesterday inventing a cure for the common cold, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘No, I can make it work. Trust me.’ She’s conscious of sounding desperate. ‘Please?’

Christen sneezes three times, but then smiles a smile that makes it all the way to her watery eyes. ‘You know I do.’

***

The car ride that evening feels like a necessary return to normality. Tobin makes Christen bundle up until she can barely walk, unable to stop herself looping just one more scarf round Christen’s neck on the way out the door, and fills a hot water bottle to keep her warm until the car heating kicks in. She’s not taking any chances. 

‘Tobs,’ Christen protests when Tobin brandishes a blanket and starts tucking it around her knees, ‘I have a cold. I’m not dying.’

‘Yeah, well, you’re not getting colder on my watch.’

There are no more carols on the radio, but Tobin sneaks her Christmas playlist on anyway and hums along. Christen rolls her eyes but doesn’t object. 

The snow has been cleared and they make good time, but Christen sneaks increasingly concerned glances at her watch. ‘Does it start at 7.30?’

‘Hmm? Yeah.’

‘We’ll have to rush in or we’ll miss the start.’ 

‘No, it’s okay. You’ll see.’

Tobin bypasses the crammed main car park and turns up the edge of the theater to the staff bays, waving at the bored attendant who always seems to be reading the same paperback whenever she passes through. Christen raises her eyebrows. ‘Did you get a new job when I wasn’t looking?’ 

‘Not exactly. Are you warm enough?’

‘Toasty.’

‘Good. Let’s go.’

The lobby is empty but there’s a hum of anticipation in the theater, everyone already in their seats. Tobin steers Christen past the gilded doors and through a backstage stairwell into the lighting booth. It’s directly facing the stage, behind the rows, but completely closed off and private. 

The two headphoned technicians grin at them from behind the desk. One of them gives Tobin a thumbs up and points at a small, slightly ratty bench-style couch against the back wall. Christen smiles at them before she turns to whisper to Tobin. ‘Are we allowed to be here?’

‘You can sneeze as often and as loudly as you need to.’

‘I guess I mean,  _ how _ are we allowed to be here?’ 

‘I’ve taken their publicity photos for a couple of years. Just as a favor.’

‘A favor you’re now calling in?’

‘Something like that. Come on, it’ll start in a sec.’

Tobin unfurls the blanket and tucks Christen in on the couch. It’s definitely on the small side, forcing them to sit pressed right up against each other, which normally Tobin wouldn’t think twice about, but she finds herself suddenly hyper-aware of how  _ warm _ Christen is. 

The curtain goes up just in time to provide a distraction. Tobin had forgotten to snag a playbill from the tables outside the auditorium, but she couldn’t care less and nor from the look of it could Christen. The first act is a local dance troupe, nine girls, and Christen is entranced as they move feather-light across the stage.

Tobin never stuck with dance classes as a kid, inevitably getting distracted by soccer practice or extra art class, but she went to all of Christen’s recitals and always appreciated them if only for how happy it made Christen. She still doesn’t realize she’s been watching Christen instead of the dancing until it’s over, the applause startling her as it rings through the audience. 

Christen turns her head, their faces suddenly very close. ‘Tobin?’

‘Yeah, Chris?’

‘This is perfect.’

Tobin’s heart soars. 

She lifts her arm so Christen can burrow further into her side, and Christen rearranges the blanket over them both. Tobin barely notices the next act either, overwhelmed by the feeling of Christen warm and soft against her, lulled by the gentle rhythm of Christen’s breathing. 

One of the technicians nudges them awake when the performance is over. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is a little bit late - it's been a rough couple of days so I'm doubly glad I wrote this all in advance 🎄
> 
> Hope you're all doing well!


	11. tenth

_ 3 January  _

_ The tenth day of Christmas  _

Christen wakes before dawn. It’s still dark and the birds aren’t singing yet. She stretches out luxuriously under the covers, blinking the room into focus, and rolls over to see Tobin curled up precariously in the armchair by the window. She’s asleep, judging by the sound of her breathing, so Christen wonders whether to just leave her be, but she looks so scrunched up and uncomfortable that it seems kinder to wake her. ‘Tobin.’ No response.  _ ‘Tobin.’ _

Tobin shifts slightly and mumbles something, but doesn’t wake. Christen balls up one of her socks and lobs it across the room, intending to gently encourage Tobin into the land of the living, but manages instead to hit her in the face and startle her so badly she falls out of the chair. ‘Oh, god, I’m so sorry -’ 

‘Ow,’ says Tobin absently, rubbing the back of her head. She looks so utterly confused to find herself on the floor that it would be funny if Christen wasn’t a little bit worried about damaging her. ‘Was I asleep?’

‘Have you been there all night?’

Tobin stretches stiffly and stifles a yawn. ‘Um. I guess?’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Well, you fell asleep, but I wanted to be here in case you needed anything, and I was reading but I must have been more tired than I thought, and -’ 

‘No, I mean, why were you in the chair?’ Tobin’s forehead creases in confusion. ‘You should have gotten in with me.’

It’s hard to tell in the gloom, but she thinks that Tobin maybe blushes. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d want me to.’ 

Christen’s whole body aches at that, or maybe it’s not the words so much as the rough sleepiness of Tobin’s voice. She could try to keep it light, make a joke about how if she’s contagious Tobin has definitely caught it by now, but she just holds out a hand. ‘You look exhausted. Get in.’ Tobin blinks up at her uncertainly. ‘Please?’

Tobin takes her hand and gets up gingerly. The bed dips as she sits down, Christen pulling the comforter out of the way, but then she draws back. ‘Um, Chris?’ 

‘Yeah?’

‘Can I take my jeans off?’ 

Maybe this is, in fact, how Christen dies: her skin suddenly feeling like it’s on fire just from the prospect of Tobin half-naked in her bed, her brain exploding with all the ways she wants to pin her down and kiss her senseless, but too fluey to do anything but combust quietly to herself. 

‘Fine,’ she manages, ‘but hurry up, I rolled into a cold spot to make room for you.’

Tobin doesn’t hurry up, or at least it feels like it takes a tortuously long time. Christen averts her eyes out of self-preservation as much as anything, but she still hears the soft thud as the jeans land on the floor before Tobin climbs into bed seemingly in slow motion, and she can’t avoid seeing delicate ankles and strong thighs and enough exposed hip to make her bite back a whimper. 

Not that it would sound like a whimper in her current state. More like a snuffle. A gross, hugely unsexy snuffle. 

Tobin sighs as she lies down, comfortable at last. The blankets have ended up twisted at the foot of the bed, and in straightening them Christen’s legs somehow ends up tangled together with Tobin’s, and  _ fuck  _ she’s so warm. Their knees clash as Tobin rolls over to find the right position. Her skin is soft and smooth, but every touch makes Christen shiver. 

‘If you don’t stop fidgeting you’re back in the chair.’

‘I never fidget,’ mumbles Tobin. 

She’s asleep before Christen can summon the strength to deny that with the force it deserves.

***

Tobin does the egg round and brings Christen a completely absurd breakfast in bed: a fried egg - goose, Christen diagnoses - decorated with a sriracha smiley face, and dozens of pieces of toast cut into increasingly complicated shapes. 

Christen is already smiling so hard she can feel her cheeks stretching with it, but she can’t resist the usual dig. ‘Is this safe to eat?’

‘Chris. I can manage toast. Look, I even scraped the burnt bits off that one.’

‘You’re a real charmer.’

‘I know. Is it working?’

‘Depends what you’re trying to achieve, I guess.’

Tobin shrugs, curling up against the headboard with coffee in hand. ‘Just to make you happy.’

It’s characteristically Tobin, that: she’s so laid-back on the surface that her sincerity can take people by surprise. Christen isn’t one of those people, but Tobin seems to think she’s gone too deep and backtracks. ‘Cheer you up, I mean. Because you’re sick.’

‘I know what you meant,’ says Christen gently. 

She offers Tobin a little piece of toast in the shape of a flower, and Tobin eats it straight from her fingers with a grin Christen was not prepared for. 

***

Tobin sticks around for the rest of the day, like she often does, and she refuses to let Christen lift a finger to the point where it’s almost suspicious. She sets Christen up on the couch with blankets and kleenex and warm socks and hot tea, but still trots eagerly back and forth to the kitchen whenever Christen so much as looks like she might want a snack or a hot chocolate. 

‘What’s up?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Why are you being so nice to me?’

Tobin blinks and pauses the movie. ‘Er. You’re my best friend, and you’re sick?’

‘No, but - why are you being  _ so  _ nice to me?’

‘You should be careful what you wish for. Maybe next time I’ll totally ignore you.’

‘Tobs. I mean it. You’re not… like, still trying to make amends? Because you don’t need to, you know.’

Something does clear in Tobin’s face, then, some tiny wrinkle in her forehead that Christen hadn’t even noticed. ‘Promise? Because I - I am sorry, Chris.’

‘You’ve already said, and yes, I promise.’ Tobin had borrowed some joggers and a sweatshirt instead of putting her jeans back on, and she looks so soft and sleepy in Christen’s clothes that Christen can’t help but hold out her arm. ‘I promise. Come here.’

Tobin presses play and shuffles across to join Christen under the blanket, her cheek brushing Christen’s shoulder as she leans in, and it makes Christen feel so tender it’s hard to breathe.

Tobin dozes off about halfway through the second movie and Christen disentangles herself carefully, piling up the finished mugs and cookie plate to take back to the kitchen. The hall looks out over the yard to the barn, and she suddenly knows why Tobin has been keeping her on the other side of the house: there’s a truck parked outside and men going back and forth to the barn with boxes, assisted by - oddly - Becky and Emily with armfuls of what look like fairy lights. 

She opens the side door. ‘What’s going on?’

Emily’s eyes widen. ‘Go back inside! You’re not meant to be in the cold!’

‘I’m not a Victorian heroine, Em -’

‘No, but you’re sick,’ says Becky firmly. ‘Where’s Tobin?’

‘Asleep on the couch. Seriously, what is all this?’ 

‘Let us put this stuff down and we’ll tell you.  _ Inside. _ I mean it.’

‘Fine,’ grumbles Christen, shutting the door obediently. Becky is not to be disobeyed when she uses that tone of voice. 

She retreats to the warm kitchen and rinses out the mugs. The noise of the water must wake Tobin, because she appears blinking in the doorway and freezes as Becky and Emily simultaneously arrive from the hall. ‘Ah.’

‘Afternoon,’ says Emily cheerfully. ‘You’ve been busted.’

‘Turns out Christen can outwit you even with flu,’ adds Becky. 

‘I don’t have  _ flu.’ _

Tobin drops mournfully into a chair. ‘I guess you were bound to find out. I just wanted it all to be ready first.’

‘Well, it is something to do with  _ my _ barn.’

‘Tobin was meant to be distracting you.’

‘She tried, believe me.’ Tobin pouts and Christen takes pity. ‘Can I see?’

***

She can’t help but gasp when they walk her out to the barn. Her mom had just finished renovating it before the accident, planning to turn it into some kind of library/studio area, and it's been empty ever since. Now there are lights strung all over the rafters, greenery curled around the windows, a _stage_ set up at one end and a bar at the other. There’s a _band_ putting together their soundsystem. It’s insane.

‘This is amazing,’ she breathes. ‘But why - ?’

Tobin shrugs. ‘I figured it might be nice for you to be able to see people without having to go anywhere. Like, it’s your house. You don’t have to wear heels and you can escape if you get bored and go to bed whenever you like.’ She points across the room. ‘Plus, there’s going to be a potluck, so you don’t have to take the risk on me cooking you dinner.’

‘My hero.’ Christen gazes around the room again, then reaches instinctively for Tobin’s hand. ‘Genuinely. Thank you. It’s so beautiful.’

And it is. It’s wonderful. It’s Friday night and people start arriving just after dark: the O’Haras descend in force closely followed by the Heaths, the Horans, the Sonnetts bearing a vat of potato salad, Crystal and her boyfriend with a trayful of slightly wonky homebaked croissants. Christen realizes she must still look like shit, either that or Tobin has laid down the law, because nobody monopolizes her for too long or pressures her to dance or drink or to try just one more dish from the groaning table of food. They’re all just eager to see her. She sits at the side of the room watching everybody else dance and jump around and catches up with all her friends, her parents’ friends, even some of her old teachers who still live in town. She smiles hard for the whole evening and enjoys herself, truly, until she almost falls asleep in a plate of Mrs Horan’s cookies. 

‘Alright, girl,’ whispers Crystal beside her, squeezing her arm. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

‘I haven’t had a bedtime since I was twelve.’

‘I know, but Tobin will kill me if I let you get sicker. She’s counting on you being at the game tomorrow.’

‘Where is Tobin?’ Christen cranes her head, scanning the throng of people. ‘I need to thank her for all of this.’

‘Playing host somewhere. Last I saw she’d just been ambushed by Mrs Morgan. You know what she’s like, won’t shut up until she’s explained all the new conspiracy theories she read up on this week.’

Christen spots Tobin leaning against the bar, nodding mechanically at the blonde woman opposite her and drinking a beer slightly too intently. She’s used to this - Tobin has always been in demand at parties because she can talk to anyone, could charm the most boring person alive into thinking they’re fascinating - and she’s also used to the way Tobin glances over at her, like clockwork, like she’s sensed Christen’s eyes on her. Tobin smirks with the corner of her mouth and gives her a little wave, and Christen’s stomach flips. 

Christen just watches her for a moment: the line of her jaw, and the movement of her neck as she drinks, and the way her hair shines under the lights. 

It’s been wonderful. It’s been the loveliest evening. 

Because now Christen knows exactly what she wants. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the best intentions to get this all posted before Christmas but... here we are. You know what they say about best intentions. 
> 
> Thank you to the extremely kind people who reached out to see if I was okay. To be honest, I was very depressed for a couple of weeks and just struggled with everything. This isn't the first time it's happened, but on the plus side I am lucky enough to have a support system who know what to look for and how to help. 
> 
> This isn't something I would usually throw into an author's note, but I wanted to mention it on this occasion to encourage everyone to look after their mental health right now. My own depression happens to predate the pandemic but the current global situation is challenging in a whole new way, and a lot of people will find themselves struggling for the first time. 
> 
> If you are lonely, please reach out. If you are anxious, please be kind to yourself. We are all just doing our best so please, please make sure you're not suffering in silence. Take it from me that it's never easier alone. 
> 
> Here are a couple of mental health resources local to me, and please do add others in the comments if you are so inclined!
> 
> Love to all. 
> 
> https://bounceback.cmha.ca
> 
> https://www.we.org/en-CA/get-doing/activities-and-resources/wellbeing/covid-19-toolkit 
> 
> https://ymhc.ngo/resources/covid-19/
> 
> https://interligne.co (LGBTQ+ resources)


	12. eleventh

_ 4 January  _

_ The eleventh day of Christmas  _

‘Noooooo.’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. You’re already awake, I don’t know why you’re complaining.’

‘Because it’s the  _ morning _ and I should still be  _ sleeping.’ _

‘It’s Pine Ridge game day! You love Pine Ridge game day!’ Perry stares as Tobin sits bolt upright and hurtles out of bed. ‘Wow. You  _ really _ love Pine Ridge game day?’

‘I just need to -’ Tobin fumbles with the curtains and breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Sun. Is it cold?’

‘Tropical. Have you been here the last couple weeks?’

‘You’re so mean to me before breakfast.’

Tobin pulls the curtains shut again and retreats back under her blankets, groaning as Perry sits down on the bed. ‘Are you still here?’

‘Who’s being mean now? I just want to see what’s going on with my little sister.’

‘Well, first I was asleep, and then I was rudely awakened, and I need you to tell me what I’m doing now.’

‘Tobs.’

‘What? Why should anything be going on with me?’

‘Well, first of all you can tell me why you’re so excited about the game.’

‘I’m literally renowned in this town for my love of sports. Next question.’

‘Okay, shall we start with the thirty French hens?’

‘I guess I asked for that,’ sighs Tobin, sitting up and smoothing her hands over her eyes. ‘Fuck, I shouldn’t have let Kelley bring shot glasses. I think I just wanted to do something different, you know? Something Chris would remember.’

‘Something she’d remember, or something to distract her?’

‘Does it matter?’

Perry shrugs and scoots back on the bed, reaching out to put an arm around her sister’s shoulders. ‘You’re a sweetheart, Tobs.’

‘But?’

‘No buts.’

‘No, I can tell. You were leading up to a but.’

‘It’s not a but, exactly. I just… You really love Christen, don’t you?’

‘You know I do.’

‘No, I mean - you  _ really _ love her.’

Tobin feels herself stiffen in her sister’s arms. Caught. ‘Perry…’

‘God, it’s not a bad thing, Tobin. At all. I just want to make sure you’re being honest with yourself about what you actually want from all this.’

Tobin’s face is burning suddenly, and she’s not sure why. She decides it’s probably outrage. ‘I’m not doing it because I want anything!’

‘Not in a selfish way. I just think you need to be prepared in case this Christmas has changed the way Christen feels about you. Or - well - if it hasn’t.’

They’re so quiet after that that Tobin can hear Katie singing in the shower down the hall. Tobin feels oddly tense, has been feeling that way for days, first because she was excited and then because she’d fucked up and now - damn it, Perry - because she’s so on edge she can barely breathe. Whenever her mind wanders, which is often, even on a good day, she remembers falling asleep in Christen’s bed and the little jolt of electricity whenever the bare skin of Christen’s thigh brushed hers. She remembers how close they’d been, surely, to kissing on New Year’s Eve. That’s the agonizing thing about it all: it feels like it could happen between them, it feels like it really could be right there for the taking, like she could have leaned over any time in the last two weeks and kissed Christen just like that, as easy as breathing. 

But she hasn’t. And, more importantly,  _ Christen _ hasn’t. So maybe she’s imagining the whole thing.

She sighs and leans into Perry’s shoulder. ‘Do you ever just wish you could skip scenes?’

‘All the time.’

‘I wish I could just go back to sleep and wake up and everything be decided. I - I want to know. How I feel, how Chris feels,  _ if _ she feels, I guess. I just don’t want to have to find out.’

‘It’ll be okay, you know,’ says Perry firmly, and Tobin is still enough of a younger sister to be reassured by it despite herself. ‘You and Christen are part of each other’s lives, whatever happens. You just have to see what that looks like.’

Tobin tugs the blanket up over them both and wraps her arms around Perry’s waist. ‘Love you, Per.’

‘Love you too, Tobs.’ There’s a pause. ‘So have you organized a pre-game flypast of eagles, or -’

‘Get out.’

***

The day is bright and cold, and the town breathes a collective sigh of relief. That particular weather report has been a source of anxiety ever since some bright spark selected the first Saturday of the new year for the annual Shallow Lake versus Pine Ridge football game. Christen wakes up to a text from Kelley offering to bet on the outcome, a text from Alex asking to borrow her blue cashmere scarf, and a text from Tobin that merely says  _ ‘SPORTS’. _

Her stomach flips the moment she sees Tobin’s name on the screen, and her sleep-addled brain is halfway to replying  _ I love you, you dork. Skip the stupid game and get over here and kiss me. _

Fortunately - maybe unfortunately - Christen has a deeply ingrained sense of civic responsibility and knows that her duty is to support the Shallow Lake Celtics in their decade-long quest to overcome the Pine Ridge Huskies.  _ Not  _ to get her best friend on her back in her childhood bed and fuck her until she can’t remember her own name. 

This is not the optimal direction for her thoughts to be taking right now. 

‘Good morning,’ says Mrs Heath cheerfully, the entire family assembled on Christen’s doorstep as arranged to walk her to the school field. ‘Did you sleep well, dear? Weren’t kept up all night?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ says Christen. There is  _ no _ reason for her to blush. Tobin smirks at her over her mother’s shoulder. The blush intensifies. 

Cindy has brought a magic Mary Poppins bag of extra scarves, cardigans and even blankets, but Christen still shivers as she watches the Celtics cheerleaders hustle out of their dubious tartan warm-ups for the pre-game ceremonials. Every year she marvels at how they manage not to die of frostbite.

The game is… fine. It’s difficult not to enjoy sports with the Heaths because their excitement is a spectator event in itself. Even if they were all just sitting there in silence staring into space, Christen’s attention would be fully occupied by the fact that Tobin is sitting really,  _ really  _ close to her - for warmth, possibly, although they’re both so bundled up that Christen is feeling positively hot. 

The whistle blows and she stands up hastily, the rush of cold air blissful on her scarlet cheeks. ‘Coffee?’

‘Chriiiis. You’ll miss the halftime show.’

Christen rolls her eyes. ‘It’s Shallow Lake versus Pine Ridge. There is no halftime show.’

‘This year there is.’

‘Tobin.’

Tobin smiles innocently. ‘Mmm?’

‘Did you do something?’ 

‘It’s not much, I promise. And it’s not, um. Public.’

‘The  _ whole town _ is here.’

‘Yes, but no one knows it’s anything to do with you.’ Tobin looks at her appealingly. ‘Stay. Please. I promise I’ll go fetch you all the coffees you need afterwards.’ 

‘Fine.’ 

Christen sits back down beside Tobin, hands wedged under her legs. Sure enough, the cheerleaders are back, dancing and leaping as though their lives depend on it, which may well be true if they hope to stave off hypothermia. Three of the high school seniors sing a song Christen doesn’t recognize and are applauded politely. Christen feels a little flash of irritation. Something is going to happen, and she doesn’t like this feeling of not knowing what it is. 

_ ‘And now,’  _ bellows the announcer,  _ ‘let’s celebrate… our Celtics!’ _

The crowd whoop obediently, and it’s a second before Christen hears the other noise through the cheering. And even then, she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

It’s  _ bagpipes.  _

Everyone around her is cheering and laughing, because it’s ridiculous - real pipers, in Shallow Lake, which hasn’t had an actual Scottish settler since 1793 - but Christen is back in that Christmas years ago in Edinburgh. She remembers it so distinctly: standing on the medieval castle ramparts, the whole city spread out beneath her in the winter sunshine, her mom’s arm through hers, her dad’s hand on her shoulder. 

Their little family bubble, so unique, so precious. Gone. 

She knows then that Tobin has arranged this, and she knows it’s for exactly that reason, to keep her parents part of the holidays. It’s just the kind of thoughtfulness Christen has come to expect, characteristic of that little girl she first met at Sunday school who insisted Christen take the nicest colors from the pencil pot, and it deserves a kinder response than Christen can manage right now. She wants to hug Tobin. No, she doesn’t; she wants to throw her arms around Tobin’s neck and kiss her breathless and never let her go again. 

Instead, she’s already burst into tears. 

It’s not just the memories; it’s the hopeful, tender look in Tobin’s eyes, suddenly too much and not nearly enough. It's a look that narrows Christen’s entire world down to a single face. She knows she’s staring, probably intently enough to make it weird, but it’s like she can't look away: she’s so aware of Tobin, the little scar on her forehead, her lashes, her barely-there freckles, every detail she knows so well and still feels like she's seeing for the first time. But she can still hear the pipers playing on the field, and there are so many memories and emotions crowding at the fringes of her subconscious that she instinctively puts her hands over her ears as though it will protect her. 

Tobin looks utterly stricken. ‘Chris -’

‘No, don’t - it’s not -’

_ Don’t worry,  _ she means.  _ It’s not you. You haven’t done anything wrong. You couldn’t.  _

But she’s so overwhelmed she can’t finish the sentences, and she can’t sit there watching Tobin’s face fall like that. 

‘I have to go.’

‘Chris,  _ please -’ _

‘I’m sorry. I’ll text you, okay?’

And she runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, this once really taxed my ingenuity. Whose idea was this anyway.
> 
> Happy Tuesday! Stay safe and be well.


	13. twelfth

_ 5 January  _

_ The twelfth day of Christmas  _

Christen wakes up feeling like she’s held together with string. She’d cried on and off most of the night, flung back into memories of her parents, grieving for moments she didn’t appreciate enough at the time, but now she’s come out the other side, she feels - cautiously - better. It’s the most delicate of calms, but it’s a start. 

It’s already become habit to dress warmly, brew her coffee so it’s there waiting when she gets back, and collect her egg basket from the spot by the door. Chickens and partridges first, rushing out of their houses to peck furiously around her boots as she scatters feed across the grass; popping into the henhouse while they’re distracted to muck them out and check what are now the usual laying spots. Geese next, then a meditative moment to watch the swans glide smoothly across the lake. Sometimes the milk will have been delivered to the doorstep while she’s out. It’s a good routine, really. It suits her.

Today the milk isn’t there yet, but Tobin is. 

She obviously walked over, and she’s hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm despite being bundled up in that bright blue woolen overcoat and beanie and giant scarf. Christen feels simultaneously teary and relieved and very, very tender, a rush of emotion so sudden that she has to look away; even though she is also absolutely certain, now, that all she really wants is to run into Tobin’s arms. 

She busies herself with scraping the mud off her boots. ‘Why didn’t you wait inside?’

‘I didn’t want to surprise you.’

‘You’re only ever a good surprise,’ says Christen firmly, pulling off her gloves. 

Tobin doesn’t look totally convinced, but she follows Christen into the house and pulls off her scarf, cold fingers fumbling with the buttons of her coat. ‘Good haul?’

Christen shows her the full basket. ‘You can judge the taste for yourself.’

They settle in the warm kitchen like they have a thousand times before, orbiting effortlessly around each other in the familiar space. Christen makes them both scrambled eggs and Tobin makes more coffee. Christen feels Tobin relax and stop beating herself up for - as she sees it - making Christen cry, and Christen herself starts to feel more solid, more present. More ready for whatever comes next. 

‘Chris.’

‘Yeah?’

‘When you’ve finished, will you come for a walk with me, please?’

It’s a normal enough request, but there’s such gravity in Tobin’s voice as she says it. It feels important. Christen doesn’t nod or shrug or throw out a response; she puts down her mug carefully and arranges her cutlery on her plate, putting everything in order, before she looks up and smiles.

‘I’d like that.’

***

The town is absolutely full of people. It’s busy enough that Christen does a mental double-take, wondering if she’s missed a memo or if she’s totally lost track of time and it’s New Year all over again. But that was last week, for sure, because it was the day she felt so shitty and Tobin bought her the farm to save it from going under, and Christen got so mad at her -

‘You okay?’

Christen looks over, startled. There’s a little smile on Tobin’s face, like she can tell exactly what Christen’s thinking, which she probably can because she usually seems to know. ‘Did we get universal healthcare or something?’

Tobin laughs. ‘Not exactly. Want a hot chocolate?’

‘It’s like you don’t know me at all.’

The coffee shop is crowded, so she waits outside while Tobin orders. She’s only now realizing how tired she is. She was awake all night thinking about those stupid bagpipes, to the point where it’s almost like she can still hear -

No, she  _ can.  _ She can hear them. 

Christen looks around, bewildered. The sidewalks had already been full when they’d arrived, but now people seem to be gathering instead of milling around directionless; they’re expectant, excited, waiting for something. There are no cars any more, and in the comparative quiet she can definitely hear pipes. Pipes, and something else. 

‘Milady’s hazelnut hot chocolate with marshmallows.’

She reaches for the cup automatically, head still turned up the street. ‘Tobin, what’s going on?’

Tobin looks excited, too, in a nervy kind of way. ‘Here. Stand up here.’

‘But -’

‘You’ll see better.’

‘See  _ what?’ _

Tobin just takes her hand and helps her hop up onto the stone ledge around a flowerbed. She can see over the crowd like this, and it is very much a crowd now, assembled in banks on either side of the road. The pipes are unmistakeably louder. 

And then it hits her. It’s a parade.

It starts off like the Fourth of July: twelve drummers in full regalia, twirling their sticks, setting the crowd clapping and whistling along. A full pipe band, twenty-two of them, pacing past solemnly before a troupe of dancers; Christen recognizes some of the faces from the show a couple of nights ago. And then she has to giggle because the scene suddenly transforms into a harvest festival celebration. There’s Mr and Mrs Harvey, leading eight cows, and three of their farmhands corralling seven swans and six geese. It’s the last thing in the world Christen expected to see in their staid little town. 

She’s so surprised it takes a while to come back to reality, but eventually she’s broken out of it by the sound of cheering: kids absolutely beside themselves with excitement, parents leaning down to encourage them to wave to the cows, older groups smiling and laughing. She sees the Dunns and Horans a little way down the street to her left, the O’Haras opposite them, and the Heaths lurking on the other side of the bakery trying very hard not to be spotted as they sneak looks at her and Tobin. All the people and things she loves best are here.

Tears prick at her eyes.

‘Chris.’

Tobin is looking at her tentatively, worriedly, one hand gripping her coffee and the other stuffed in her pocket. Christen wipes her cheek and stumbles down from the ledge. ‘Did you do all this?’

‘Do you like it?’

_ ‘Tobin.’ _

‘There's someone at your house to deal with the animals. It’s all arranged. The Harveys were thinking of changing focus anyway and the farm’s going to gradually transition into egg production. Chickens and geese. You can keep some, if you want to, and visit the others whenever you like and, I mean, you never have to buy eggs or milk again as long as you live.’ Tobin bites her lip. She looks tense, like she might cry. ‘I never wanted to make your life difficult, Chris. I know I'm too laid-back for you, and I’m not - like, naturally smart or organized or any of that, but I did plan this. I meant it all.’

‘You’re not too laid-back for me. You’re not too  _ anything  _ for me.’ Christen feels like she’s brimming over, like she can’t contain everything she needs to feel, wants to say. ‘I don’t understand. Why this?’

Tobin blinks and shrugs a shoulder awkwardly. ‘I don’t know, really. I guess it’s just... One of the reasons I love you is how happy it makes you to see other people happy, and I thought - but I know it’s a crazy thing to do. I know it’s all been crazy. I was just trying to do something you’d never forget.’

‘It’s not crazy, not even a little bit,’ rushes out Christen, before her brain has fully caught up to the rest of the sentence. ‘Wait. What did you say?’

‘I noticed how happy it makes you to see -’

‘No, before that. What did you say before that?’

‘I don’t…’ Tobin begins, then trails off as she remembers. ‘The bit where I told you it was one of the reasons I love you?’

‘Yes,’ whispers Christen. ‘That bit.’

Tobin gazes at her for what, in the weight of her eyes, feels like a full minute. Then she puts her coffee cup down on the ledge and steps forward, gloved hands twisted in front of her. ‘I love you, Christen. I don’t mean as my best friend, although you are that too. I mean that I  _ love  _ you, and I think I always have, and I know I always will. I will, in whatever way you’ll let me.’

Christen is so happy she could float. 

They can never agree afterwards who makes the first move. All Christen knows is that one minute she’s standing in the street and the next it feels like all her dreams are coming true at once. The kiss is gentle at first, almost careful, like neither of them wants to push their luck too quickly, but Christen’s hands find their way around Tobin’s waist and it’s like she can feel Tobin’s whole body thrumming. She can tell they’re both poised, ready to hold each other closer, which makes sense: now that she finally has Tobin in her arms, she finally realizes just how long she’s wanted it. 

Tobin draws back first, and Christen feels anxiety settle at the back of her throat, but Tobin is just staring at her, almost dazed. She can hardly breathe until suddenly Tobin throws her arms around her neck and just hugs her, bursting with happiness. It only lasts a second before she takes Christen’s face in her hands and kisses her again. This time it’s clumsy and overenthusiastic but god, it’s  _ right. _

Someone wolf whistles, but Christen is so joyful she doesn’t care. She just smiles against Tobin’s mouth. 

‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ is all she can say. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

***

Christen wakes on the thirteenth day of Christmas with Tobin’s arm draped over her waist and her chin tucked in the crook of Christen’s neck. As usual, they’re somehow right at the edge of the king-size bed, curled up around each other despite the acres of empty sheets on Tobin’s other side. In hindsight, that should have been a clue. 

She shifts her position very very slightly, trying not to wake her -  _ friend, _ she thinks out of habit, but she knows that’s not what they are any more. She’s sore, in a good way, and as she moves her legs she can tell she’s still wet. 

Tobin mumbles something into her shoulder, stroking her stomach gently. Christen picks up her hand and traces the shape of her fingers, pressing a kiss to the last knuckle. ‘Good morning.’

‘Mmmf. Sleep well?’

‘Oh, you know. I was pretty tired.’

‘No kidding. We did good.’ Christen feels Tobin smile smugly against her skin. ‘So, I was thinking.’

‘Oh no.’

Tobin rolls onto her back. The movement drags the sheet down around her hips and Christen tries very hard to focus on her face. ‘Twelve partridges. Twenty-two turtle doves. Thirty hens. Thirty-six songbirds -’

‘I  _ knew  _ that was you!’

‘Sssh. That one was a mistake. Forty rings, forty-two geese, forty-two swans, forty cows. I counted and between the show and the party there were sixty-six people dancing. Twenty-two bagpipers. Twelve drummers yesterday.’

She looks at Christen expectantly. Christen blinks and has to laugh, because she’s honestly trying really hard to focus on what Tobin is saying but they’re still so warm and relaxed and her skin is so soft and her breasts are so perfect and  _ right there. _ ‘What about it?’

‘It makes 364 presents. One for every day of the year but one.’ Tobin shifts onto her side and looks at her earnestly. ‘Let me get you something else, Chris. Just to round it off. Anything you like.’

Christen turns to face her, swinging her leg over Tobin’s hip and enjoying the way Tobin can’t help but press closer. She’s so happy it feels like she could stay here forever, completely at home, because it’s  _ Tobin: _ it’s all of her growing-up, and the absolute rightness of being together now, and the way it feels like her future has opened up in front of her. 

She tucks Tobin’s hair behind her ear and kisses her, just once, just gently. 

‘Can I keep you instead?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, everyone, and for your kind wishes and lovely comments :)


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